In the Heat of Battle
by Elred Bluegreen
Summary: REUPLOAD What do INTERPOL-SWAT-turned-Commando operators, teenage college students, JGSDF soldiers, and freedom fighters have in common?
1. Chapter 1

REPOSTED DUE TO SELF CONFIDENCE ISSUES

Author's note: Credits to (First and foremost) Infinity Ward for the awesome game of Modern Warfare 2 (GOOD TIMES) and Kiyohiko Azuma for Azumanga Daioh (Think different.) Also, to Anime Borat, who helped me find a good starting point (Which means he basically wrote this chapter for me), Fanfiction dot net, for giving me a place to post these things, and to Private Ramirez, for typing all of this after I asked Sergeant Foley for help! YOU GUYS ALL ROCK! (End lighthearted A/N, begin semiserious or not story)

* * *

The darkened conference room gave off an eerie air as two men sat across from each other, casually playing a game of chess to provide a distraction from the grim seriousness of their talk. One man, the one with the white pieces, moved his queen over the board, taking the black's remaining bishop.

"I assure you, Mr. Prime Minister," he said, his Japanese nearly flawless in its formality, but accented heavily, "the American troops you house within your borders will never save your country from extermination should you choose to keep them there. Think of your people... how many will be killed once our soldiers run out of Americans to butcher?"

Springing a rook from the opposite side of the board, one that appeared to be besieging the white king, the other man knocked the queen over.

"The United States is our ally, ambassador. Even as we speak, their numbers in the country are growing, and will continue to grow. IF what you said was true, about them not being able to help us, in what way would you fear them amassing here?"

Stepping a pawn up the board, the other man leaned back, having set his trap.

"They are not amassed yet. And they never will if we launch an attack. You have my word that as long as you don't _enable_ those terrorists to gather on your little mountain strip and use it to see our shores, not one Japanese citizen will be harmed."

"I am well aware of the Zakhaev Intl attack, Chernov." Using the same rook, the Prime Minister struck at the pawn that now had his king in check. "The most lethal terrorist attack since the September 11th bombings... but I have sources that tell me it was not an American's work. There _were _two Russian bodies found on the tarmac. In addition, the American body was found by the Russian FSB dead from a 9mm to the chest, and a cartridge casing was recovered from the scene. However, none of the officers that found him fired the shot, and no 9mm pistol was found. That rules out suicide, doesn't it?"

"Listen to me, Mr. Prime Minister!" 'Chernov' spat, slamming a bishop down on top of the rook and sending it off the table, "I lost my SON in that attack, and I was told by my superiors that it was an AMERICAN who killed him! We WILL have our vengeance! You are standing in the way of a Russian knight, and if you do not step aside, we will run our spear THROUGH you to get it!"

Chernov's overzealous move cost him dearly. The Prime Minister moved his queen out from its lesser-noticed hiding place and set it gently down at a diagonal to the white king. The rook and bishop were placed just so, trapping it in checkmate.

"The Russians can not even play a decent game of chess any more. Regards to your son, Chernov, but I am not going to abandon our ally. My judgement is not clouded by vengeance, and I know where I stand. It took the Americans four years to even reach Japanese soil."

He leaned over the table. "I dare you to do better."

* * *

"General Shepherd! Captain Mactavish!" The Interpol Colonel, Webster, stood at attention to the two very important individuals who had just stepped through the door of the killhouse observation deck. "It's an honor to have you here, sirs!"

"At ease, Colonel, and show me what you've got." Shepherd wasted no time in getting to business, and after shaking the Colonel's hand, motioned. for Mactavish to take an empty seat next to him, even though he himself remained standing. Mactavish looked unkempt himself, his beard unshaven after a stint in the mountains.

"Colonel Webster, this is Sergeant Sanderson," he said, gesturing to the larger man that was still standing at attention at the door, "considering that we're pulling an enlisted man from your unit, we brought along our best SE representative. And, frankly, one of the best soldiers in the Task Force itself."

"At ease, Sergeant." Webster grinned, reaching to shake his hand. "I hear you guys had a hell of a time up in the Tian Shan."

"You don't know the half of it, sir."

"Can we move along, gentlemen?" Shepherd said impatiently. Throwing up his hands in mock disgust, Webster growled.

"Fine, fine, don't let my hospitality keep you!" He pushed a button on the intercom. "Lieutenant, who were the best average runs..."

"I want to see them all. We're not looking for a textbook 'best' here. If I wanted that, I would've just gone through the records or gotten a computer to do it. What do you think 'handpicked' means?"

"Right... Lieutenant, start out with Adrian and work your way down." Pulling out the first file, he passed it to the General. "Carl Adrian's an American. Birthplace, Denver. Aged 42, level-headed under pressure, but not so much for paperwork.

A buzzer went off, and the man ran out with an M4 Carbine. His stances and motions were perfect and seamless, and he dropped targets with unrelenting precision, but when he finished, Shepherd shook his head almost instantly.

"Too stiff, and his shot placement on the targets was spotty."

Mactavish seconded that notion, as did Sanderson.

The list ground down through the unit's 32 members until they hit 'T.'

"Takino Tomo, sir, one of four females in the unit. Aged 23, born in Tokyo."

Mactavish looked over the file, "Newest member... I don't know, sir. We should probably skip this one."

"Private Allen was the newest member of the 75th, _Soap_. YOU were the newest member of the SAS when I pulled your butt to Captain. Don't forget that."

"Right..." At the mention of his old nickname, Mactavish gave way.

"All right, the big show this time!" Tomo murmured to herself, feeling the adrenalin start coursing through her veins, holding her Type 89 rifle upward one handed. "C'mon, baby, hit that buzzer! Let's show this Shepherd guy just who he's dealing with!"

"Calm down, Takino." Lieutenant Schuster said over the loudspeaker, "He's docked people for offenses the books never even mentioned! Just calm down and remember your training."

"You don't know how ironic that sounds from here, man! Just hit the buzzer already!"

"Fine."

**TZZT**

Bolting from the gate, Tomo almost instantly dropped the first two targets, and barreling around the corner, the three that followed. In a flash, her combat knife was out and through the neck of the 'screamer' target through the next doorway. Then, she brought up the rifle to slaughter the next group of targets... when the bolt closed on the empty cartridge casing. A stovepipe she had no time to clear.

Thinking on her feet, she lunged at the first of the five targets, driving the butt of the gun through it. Then, she tore the second from the ground and stabbed the stake through the third one, and in one fluid motion, flashed her knife across the neck of the fourth target, spun and drew her pistol, and plugged a round into the nose of the last one. The buzzer sounded once again.

"Hoo, boy, that was a close one, wasn't it, Schuster?" She turned around to face the booth. "Uh... Schuster?"

* * *

In the crows' nest, there was a stunned silence. The ninja-esque reflexes of Takino had caught all involved completely off their guard.

"That... was a little flashy, wasn't it?" Mactavish said weakly, once he'd picked up his jaw off the floor. "Surely, you're not going to pick her, sir?"

"Captain Mactavish, this girl embodies the very qualities I'm looking for." Shepherd reprimanded. "In addition to running the course the textbook 'best,' Takino has proven that she's capable of improvising and getting the job done."

"Sir, she was just supposed to draw her pistol at that point. She was just showing off."

"To the contrary, I personally loaded each of their magazines so that the one round they would use once they got to that point would have less powder. The round would not eject properly, causing them to stovepipe. That's why every operative had the textbook response of taking cover and slowing their time by drawing a sidearm or clearing the jam. Maybe it was flashy, but it got the job done, and that's what we need in the 141."

"Should I run you through the rest of them, sir?" Webster asked.

"Negative, Colonel. Tell Takino she had thirty-six hours to pack her bags and show up at Narita. Unless Roach here has any objections?"

"No, sir. I look forward to working with the lady, sir."

Defeated, Mactavish grinned weakly. "Roach, you just got bumped down on my 'to promote' list, you know."

"Duly noted, sir."

* * *

"Welcome to Virginia, Miss Mihama," Corporal Dunn spat, turning the Humvee down a street that Chiyo hadn't noticed. "And welcome to BEAUTIFUL Arcadia, where the Rangers run around all day preparing for the gigantic purple elephant to come barging through their door. If you'll look to your left, you'll see two more almost-unarmored Humvees JUST LIKE ours, except they DON'T get miniguns on the roof like we do, and on your right..."

"Shut up, Corporal! You're giving me a headache!" Sergeant Foley yelled, "Overlord, be advised, we are entering Arcadia with Falcon, how copy, over?"

Chiyo hadn't asked any questions or, in fact, even spoken since she'd first been pulled from the university. Since she was the daughter of an ambassador, she was probably getting the special treatment at his request, but she knew that some of the soldiers felt bitterly about being cab drivers and babysitters for a 16-year-old girl, and she didn't want to annoy the already-stressed-out men that were working to keep her safe.

"Hey, kid?" one of the other soldiers in the car asked, handing forward a cell phone, "I've got a couple of arcade games on this thing, if you're bored."

"Huh? Oh, no thanks, I'm OK... but would you let me use the phone to call my dad? He's probably worried sick about me."

"Go right on ahead."

"Yeah, Ramirez, aren't you the good cop?" Dunn muttered under his breath.

"Corporal, shut your mouth!"

Grumbling incoherently to himself, the Corporal scrunched up his nose and kept driving, when another Humvee, cut him off at full speed, causing him to slam on the brakes. The group of Marines, distinguishable by their deep green MARPAT uniforms (As opposed to the ACUs the Rangers were using) in the offending vehicle all started hollering at them.

"Hey! Watch where you're fucking going!" Corporal Dunn screamed, flipping the road finger. "Marines. Cocky bastards."

Ignoring him, Chiyo shakily opened the phone to dial the number as their Humvee joined a convoy as the second position. However, the phone had no service._Weird, it had three bars a few secconds ago..._

Foley put his hand to his ear. "Say again, Overlord... roger that, we're diverting now. Dunn, Ramirez, change in plans."

"Change in plans... for..." Everyone in the Humvee looked up to see the Russian transports begin unloading paratroopers into the city. The gunner spun up the turret, muttering a curse under his breath.

"Overlord, we have visuals. It's not pretty. What should we do with Falcon, over? ...Understood, we're oscar mike, out." Foley looked over the seat. "Kid, we're getting you on a helicopter once we get into Nate's, along with another HVI, got it? Just listen to whatever the soldiers tell you to do and you'll be just fine."

"OK..." Chiyo said nervously, fixed on the soldiers coming down from the sky.

"Baker, heads up! Man making landfall on that rooftop!"

"Target acquired." The Russian that came down on the roof of the house ahead was torn apart by the Humvee's minigun. Chiyo knew she'd be sick later.

"Easy, kid. You'll be all right. Just..." Ramirez's comforting words were cut short as he saw the BTR pull in front of their lead car. "Look OUT!"

"BTR! Get out of the vehicle!"

Foley threw open the side doors, grabbing Chiyo by her collar and pulling her out behind a house so quickly that all she saw was a blur of red and black as the Humvee she was just sitting in went off like a firecracker.

"Ramirez, what've we got?" The Sergeant asked, drawing his pistol and racking the slide, handing it to the young girl. "Last resort ONLY, Falcon."

"Sir, our lead Humvee's dead, along with Baker. Number Three's doubling back and taking a different route to the restaurant."

"They're... dead?" Chiyo couldn't understand what was going on at all. The pistol was almost too large for her hands, and she wasn't even fully sure how to use it... or even if she could to save her life.

"It's war, kid." Foley growled, pulling the charging handle on his M4. "Ramirez, on point. Dunn, if you let ANYTHING happen to Falcon, I will use your eyeballs as fish bait, understood?"

"Sir!"

* * *

A/N: Will reupload following chapters over the course of the week.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: … Chapter 2. What else can I say?

* * *

"They picked you, Takino. God help us all." Lieutenant Schuster's disbelief was evident in his voice. "Next time, why don't you bring throwing stars to the range? You could get into the Navy Seals."

"You're just jealous because you don't get to join the awesome team!" Tomo shot back. "And Yomi never believed me when I said I'd join Interpol! Ha! Wait'll she hears about THIS!"

"She won't." General Shepherd said simply, having appeared behind her without her noticing.

"Whoa! Stranger danger! Who the hell are you?"

"I'm your new commanding officer, the head of Task Force 141, Lieutenant General Shepherd. I will make one thing clear—no friends, family, or even PETS will know about your new assignment. In fact, even as we speak, your relations are being told you were killed during a drug bust. Your ass is now property of the one-four-one."

"Hey, no fair! How can you make that kind of rule?"

"Because he outranks you." Mactavish grunted. "Captain Mactavish, one-four-one field commander. I outrank you, too, just for the record."

"'For the record.'" Sanderson chuckled, "We hear that a lot these days, don't we?" He went up to Tomo and stretched his hand out. "Sergeant Sanderson, 141's enlisted representative. That was pretty impressive on the range. You've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Thanks... and I assume you outrank me as well?"

"Not as much, but yes. I'll try to keep you alive to get promoted, but I can't promise anything."

"Wow... you're so badass, you know that?" Tomo accepted the handshake. "Like Arnold Scorchen... Swargen... Sylvester Stallone!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

"This is like a movie or something! Hey, Schuster! Look over here at this badass I get to work with!" Tomo jerked Roach's hand over and waved toward the booth, where Schuster was cleaning an M16. He looked up and hit the intercom.

"Yeah, you can quit rubbing it in now, all right?"

"Fine, be a stick-in-the-mud for all I care!"

Shepherd crossed his arms. "Why don't we get to be the badasses?" He muttered jokingly to Mactavish. "Is my mustache not full enough, or am I just too old?"

"I know, right? I even have a mohawk."

"Same shit."

"Different day."

* * *

"Get ready to move! Through the smoke, to the alley on the right! I've got our six!" Foley shouted out the orders, "Dunn, move up first with Falcon! Go, go, go!"

"On your feet, kid!" Dunn yelled, grabbing Chiyo's wrist and pulling her around the corner. "Jeez, you've got tiny hands, you know that? Were you even able to hold a-"

He was cut off as a bullet sparkled off the wall next to his head, causing him to stagger back and yelp. Just before the Russian, tangled in his parachute, got his act together, Ramirez charged through the smoke, planting three rounds into his chest, followed by Foley, who bounced a frag grenade around the corner and flushed out two more hostiles, who were immediately dispatched.

"Good job, team. The vehicle can't follow us into the alley, let's move... Overlord, Hunter 2-1 actual, go ahead..."

"Dunn, that was too close!" Ramirez growled, "You have to pay attention!"

"Shut up, Private! She's still alive!" Dunn retorted.

"Kid, you all right? Feeling OK?" At Ramirez's voice, she nodded, despite the lurching of her stomach. The pistol in her hand reminded her that she was still a valid target.

"I'll be fine."

"Why you always kissing up like that?" Dunn yelled, "You're more worried about some kid you've never met before in your life than your own team!"

"Which stuns me, because we were ORDERED to guard her with our lives, which you still seem to disregard, NOT TO MENTION that protecting those who can't themselves is our DUTY. If it didn't get me court-martialed, I'd..."

"I'm going to make 'SHUT UP WHILE I'M TALKING' a standing order one of these days! Dunn, you're relieved of protector status. Ramirez, she's all yours." Foley crossed his arms. "OK, we've got to take the pressure off the boys at Nate's. The evac chopper's been shot down, meaning that Raptor's been compromised."

"What's the status on Bumper Car, sir?" Ramirez asked, putting his hand on Chiyo's shoulder. Dunn couldn't tell if he'd won by shirking the responsibility of guarding the girl, or lost by getting the Private what he'd wanted, but he decided he'd take it as a plus.

"Bumper's been ordered to link up with the convoy that constitutes our new ride out of here. Stay sharp, team. Let's move up. Dunn, you're on sniper bait."

"Heh, 'point' didn't work?"

"For Ramirez, it's point. For you, it's sniper bait, because that's what I wish would happen one of these days! Just get going!"

"Yes, sir!" Corporal Dunn ran down the alley, which led to a gas station that appeared to be being robbed by a truckload of Russians. Now that he didn't have the extra baggage, he thought, he could take on the whole Russian Army!

Then, they noticed him, sending a spray of bullets downrange. Cursing, he flattened himself against the wall, not even peeking across. Then again, maybe not. After him, Foley and Ramirez stacked on the wall.

"Robbing the gas station, sir. A ton of 'em." Dunn reported.

"Roger, we're ready on your go." Foley replied. Dunn tossed out a frag grenade, which exploded into the beautiful serenade of Russian screams, followed by an earth-shattering BLAST. Peeking around again, Dunn realized he had just blown up the troop truck as well as every red-suited Russian in the fueling lot.

"That's what I want to see!" He cheered, having lived out nearly every fantasy he'd ever had since the first time he watched a James Bond movie. He walked out with a practiced swagger. "Don't use cell phones, AK-47s, or other such devices while gassing up, fellas! It could be fatal! OH!" He picked up the severed arm of one of the formerly complete soldiers. "TOO LATE!"

Foley chuckled. "Maybe you are an ass, Dunn, but at least you've got some purpose."

"Oh, don't I?"

"That's just dark..." Chiyo murmured, already feeling her stomach strengthening to the violence she was witnessing.

"Well, it's a stressful job. Plus, those two live in Virginia. They come... or came here all the time." Ramirez explained. "They spend leave here together, even though they spend most of it yelling and fighting with each other. It's a weird form of friendship."

"I had a couple of friends that were like that..."

"Good, because it's hard to explain with words."

The group moved up steadily but, with the exception of Dunn, professionally, simply because Dunn couldn't help but throw cheesy action-movie one-liners at every single dismembered piece they passed.

"Just couldn't get a **head** in life, huh, pal? Next time, use your **brain... **oh, MY BAD! Hey, need a **hand,** partner? Haha! I could do this all day... ooh, look at this!" Lifting the aforementioned hand, he bent the fingers down into 'driving while enraged' position. "Perfect hood ornament right here, guys! At least until it rots off the grille!"

"All right, you've had your fun, Dunn..."

The two stared at each other for a second while Foley realized what he'd just said. Then they both doubled over with laughter.

"Haha! That rhymes!" Dunn hooted, "Man, isn't this just grand?"

"Is Dunn always this morbid?" Ramirez crouched down next to the girl to respond, so that the Corporal wouldn't hear.

"Yes. He is. He seems like a cowardly jerk, but he's one of us and my superior. We're REQUIRED to put up with him, OK? Just try and ignore it."

"Uh...Ramirez? Does he really hate me so much?"

"No, I don't think he does. He always resented babysitting all the time. He and Allen..."

Ramirez looked up at the two hysterical soldiers. "Guys! Get a frickin' grip already! Raptor's not going to wait around for us! It wasn't even that funny to begin with!"

"Yeah, he's right, Corporal. I'll take point, though." Foley clapped Dunn on the shoulder. "There's a brownie point for you. We're oscar mike."

"Hooah." Dunn responded, wiping his eyes and glancing at a severed leg. "Try not to run off on us, guys!"

* * *

News of the invasion was just reaching Japan, and the response was swift and precise. Immediately, JSDF and US Military forces began turning all of Japan into a fortress. Evacuations of all major cities began in earnest, and palisades were constructed, designed to force any invading vehicles through a winding track laden with ambush points. Armor rumbled down the streets, soldiers directed traffic, and aircraft screamed overhead in interlacing patrols. Whatever mistakes were made in the defense of the US were not going to be repeated here.

"One at a time, please. You're all getting out of here, just wait your turn." The JGSDF soldier reported, watching the civilians jockey for position in line to get on the waiting JASDF CH-47s.

Driving past the evacuation site, Tomo looked at her GPS, which was being updated minutely to guide civilians past the palisades and reliably to airports or evacuation sites. Narita was about an hour away... it would be at least, were it not for the mortifying traffic.

"Man, this is the worst day EVER to be driving!" She moaned, laying on her horn. "Maybe I should've set out early... well, it's not like I'm gonna need this car any more. Time for some PT!"

She stepped out of the car, grabbing her luggage, and proceeded to start running across the tops of all the cars in the road, setting off a frenzy of horn-honking and middle-finger-flipping, but at least she would make the deadline.

When she got there, she was directed straight to the tarmac, where an unmarked Learjet was waiting for her. Shepherd chuckled.

"I say a day and a half and you show up in an hour and a half." He said. "Looks like you weren't a mistake after all, Takino. I was about to call you and tell you to get over here around now, anyway. Soap, Roach, and three others are already gone, off to Brazil. You and I are taking a different trip."

"Different trip, sir? You mean, like the top-secret black-ops special assignment? I'm cool with that!"

"Everything we do in 141 fits that description. Get in the plane, I'll explain on the way."

* * *

"Is... is that really true?" Tomo asked, once she'd recovered from the initial shock.

"The Russian president made the announcement half an hour ago. The US forces in Japan were growing beyond what they would accept. We expected as much, but what we didn't expect was the Chinese and North Koreans backing them. Even as we speak, they're coordinating airborne and amphibious landings along the entire Japanese western coastline."

"That's not right, sir! We can't be fooling around down in Brazil! We have to go back!"

"The ends will justify the means, Takino. My first instinct is to return to the US and fight, but I know for a fact that running recklessly into the center of the fire isn't how you put it out. Besides, we're not going to Brazil."

"Where...?"

"I've got the task force in sight, sir!" The pilot called back on the intercom. "We have clearance to land on the Reagan."

"Good. Set 'er down."

"Sixth Fleet? Hey, where are we, anyway?"

"We're gearing up for a counterattack. Right now, we're just out in the Bering Strait. The Sixth Fleet is our spear, and you're going to be the tip."

He took one of her bags, unzipping it and pulling out the Type 89 rifle inside. "You're going to meet your new team members as soon as we hit the deck, receive mission briefing at 1930, and probably be deployed before midnight. I'm going to have Blacksmith run this thing through the grinder. No one uses iron sights any more."

"Yes, sir. I can feel my heart pumping already."

"You're going to be infiltrating the Russo-Chino-Korean headquarters and planting a modem that our agent can use to tap into their satellite systems, just like they did on the US to sneak in. Right now, the Sixth Fleet can't move in close enough without getting bombed to hell, but once you plant the modem, they'll be a ghost's shadow. This task force will be a couple million tons of steel that they will not see coming."

"Your 'agent?'"

"Maybe they're not in my direct line of employment, but the rules of war have changed somewhat."

* * *

Seven Spetsnaz operatives slipped into the deserted alleyway, having had the grace to land in a largely unoccupied area of Tokyo's metropolitan district. Checking their corners professionally, silently, they each stepped over a small, inconspicuous manhole, never giving the hollow clatter under their boots a thought as they advanced. Should any of them have opened the manhole for a peek, they wouldn't have seen anything out of the ordinary, just a ladder going down into the characteristic black abyss. If one had climbed down that ladder into that black abyss, they would have found nothing, because the manhole was attached to a tripwire that touched an alert to the agent's laptop, and they would be gone before the hatch was even opened all the way.

Even as the Russians passed overhead, the agent was laying down on a clean mat, oblivious to the smell of the sewer, computer plugged into a GPS dish about the size of a crock-pot, fingers alert over the keys. About time for the final uplink check with the modem... perfect, only a few seconds of lag. They'll never know a thing.

As soon as the uplink test closed out, Osaka fell dead asleep on the keyboard, her quiet breathing echoing off the sewer walls.

* * *

Author's notes: I meant to introduce the rest of the characters this chapter, but I have to fudge a little bit to fit a timeframe. Shepherd knows you understand. XD For those of you that get the reference.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Review, and I'll stop throwing sandwiches at you. Trust me, I have a lot of sandwiches.

* * *

As Tomo stepped out of the Learjet and onto the flight deck of the Reagan, three things jumped out at her. First, the cabin of the 'Jet was heated, while the 4.5 acre tundra-at-sea was not. Second, there was a reason she had been given the brightly colored reflective vest and ear protecs—it was almost pitch black, but jets were still taking off and landing constantly. Finally, there was someone, very important judging from the uniformed Marines keeping exact pace with him, rushing to meet her and the General as they exited the aircraft.

"General, welcome aboard!" Admiral Drako greeted the substantial Shepherd. Drako himself looked a little plump on his own, but seemed to conceal a type of strength that couldn't be measured in muscle power. When the two shook hands, he spoke again. "It's pretty chilly up here on the flight deck. Let's head down to my quarters and chat, shall we?"

"Thanks, Admiral, but you mind if we walk and talk? We've all got business to take care of." Shepherd replied, releasing the hand. "That's our new operator, Private Takino. Former Interpol SWAT. She ran the course better than some of your SEALs, Drake."

"Is that so? Maybe I should..." Drako began, but turned to see her leering at him behind his back. "Wha? Don't do that!"

"'Better than your SEALs.'" She goaded. Two of the Marines mumbled something, but otherwise kept silent.

"Takino, this is Fleet Admiral Drako. Currently the most powerful man in the United States Military, apart from the Secretary of Defense and the President himself." Shepherd introduced, with a hint of envy, "Which means that you don't sneak up behind him and mock him. He could break even me in two if he wanted to, even if he looks like he's gone to seed."

"Oh, I have." Drako dismissed, "I wouldn't need the Sixth Fleet under my feet if I were in my prime. I'd come out here with the crew of _Deadliest Catch_ and a crossbow and end the war before dinner! Sadly, time doesn't treat old dogs very well."

"Yeah, whatev-" Before Tomo even finished her sentence, she felt herself flying over the Admiral's shoulder and landing on the hard, frigid steel of the flight deck. Drako hovered over her with a triumphant smile splashed over his portly face.

"Better than my SEALs, Takino. Not better than me." He chuckled. "Should I have Sergeant Major Goddard show you to your room, or _carry_ you there?"

"She's got to run by Blacksmith first, Admiral." Shepherd reminded, tossing him the Type 89.

"Ah, the Buddy. Decent rifle, although a little isolated." He appraised. "Blacksmith would have more to say. Hey, Takino, better stand up, or you'll freeze to the deck."

* * *

"This is his quarters. Blacksmith'll get your rifle rigged up to carry anything we want it to." Shepherd said. "He's a little strange, though. You'll see what I mean. The Admiral's expecting me, so have Blacksmith show you the ropes."

Through the hatch, the bass of David Hasselhoff's "Hooked on a Feeling" could be heard, in addition to a soft, wiping sound. Tomo tilted her head, being reminded of the time she had gone to Osaka's house and found her listening to "Dango Daikazoku" and hugging a punching bag. Suddenly, she missed her high-school years.

"OK... now, by weird, what do you mean?"

The door to Blacksmith's room unlocked and swung open slowly, revealing all sorts of containers filled with assorted gun parts, labeled based on their make. M9 and M1911 pistols were on top, about four or five tupperwares full each, and the lower in the pile you got, the more firepower and the larger the containers, ending with a wooden crate labeled "MINIGUN-M134". A stereo, crammed into the corner of the room behind a dissected Javelin HUD, played the music Tomo had heard outside, and a man wearing a Delta-Force style helmet sat on a swivel-chair facing away from the door, humming while carefully polishing a nickel-plated M1911, seemingly oblivious to the opening of the door, despite the fact that he was the one who unlocked it.

"THAT'S what I mean." Shepherd groaned. "Smith... Smith!"

Blacksmith rocketed to his feet and stood at attention, his right arm springing into a salute.

"Sir!"

"At ease. And for God's sake, turn that garbage down!"

"Yes, sir." Tenderly stepping over the guts of a Javelin missile, Blacksmith reached the stereo and turned the knob. "Might I ask what you're doin' down here so late?"

"This is Private Takino, FNG to your unit. She's acclimated to this gun here," he handed the younger man the Type 89, "and I need you to get some rails on it. Once that's finished, show her to the rest of the squad and make sure she gets to briefing on time." Shepherd looked at Tomo, who could almost see an apology in his eyes... just for a fleeting second. "Good luck." Turning on the heel, he left the room. Blacksmith immediately cranked the volume back up, racked the slide twice on the 1911 he was working on, discharged the hammer, and slid it into a shoebox that was just laying on the floor, setting it back at the same place. The room had absolutely no semblance of order, to say the least.

"Ah, a Type 89..." Blacksmith said softly, more to himself than to Takino. "I've only got two of those. So hard to find with the anti-export laws Japan keeps these days..." He looked up at her, his blue eyes somewhat disconcerting. "You're Japanese, Takino?"

"Yeah, Captain Obvious. Just for the record, I'm a girl, too. Surprised?"

"I'm not a Captain. I just don't keep track of names and faces in relation to countries. But this..." he measured the barrel of the gun with a ruler he had in the strap on his helmet, "I could tell you where any gun on Earth came from. Not just what country it was made in, but where it was exported, or if it was made under license, I could tell you that, too." He opened the bolt of the rifle. "Hey, did this thing stovepipe when you last used it?"

"It... Yes, it did! How'd you know that?"

"I can tell. Well, from the look of it, it was the round. Intentional. One bullet had a significantly lower powder load than the rest, to guarantee a failure, instead of just a small difference, like a machining problem. Of course, since it's been about two hours, it's a little hard to say for certain how much powder the round in question had..."

"You're a little creepy, you know that? What's with all the guns, anyway?"

"When the guys have a gun problem, they come to me. They know everything. I know more. Hand me the suitcase from the bed labeled 'Howa 89.'"

"All those guns... I've never even seen most of these before! Could I buy one-"

"NO." His face was stoney cold, his eyes glaring possessively at the wall of guns. "ONLY hand me the 'Howa' box. DON'T take ANYTHING."

"Sheesh, gun nut. You American?"

"No. Canadian." Blacksmith said, his voice already having returned to normal after blowing up on Tomo. "Before I joined the Task Force, I worked out the accent. I learned a lot of things about guns because my dad was in the Army and snuck me into the armory every weekend to learn how to care for the weapons there. Since I did all the maintenance work for the soldiers, they didn't complain."

Finally freeing the suitcase from its gridlock, Tomo carefully stepped over the loose pieces on the ground and set it down next to Blacksmith. "Lucky."

"I've had a charmed life." Opening the box, Blacksmith produced two Picatinny rails, some screws, and a screwdriver. "I'll have to fill you in on the world since the Zakhaev attack."

"You mean the American?"

"Yeah. He was 141 for exactly one day. Working deep cover with a bad apple by the name of Vladimir Makarov. He was killed by the terrorists and left there as a scapegoat so that Russia would declare war. The thing is, basic forensics completely blow their whole operation wide open."

"Oh, I thought it was weird that the Americans would support something like that..."

"Plus, I was the one who connected the mess to Brazil. The wear on that cartridge casing was just too... sloppy to have been shipped from the US. Parsing the unique markings on the case, it looked like it had been dropped past the usual 'oh, I fell out of an M240' point. I matched it to Rio's notorious Alejandro Rojas—Alex the Red. Arms dealer from the _deep_ South."

"That's where Mactavish and Sanderson went... Sanderson's badass, by the way."

"You should see him in combat. We'd never move an inch if it weren't for him. We're stuck up here, freezing our asses off, though, and all for some weird modem that none of us are sure about. If it doesn't shoot or attach to something that does, it's not going to win you a war... there. You're railed up. Now, for this mission, I think we're going in by Zodiac, and taking the covert approach, which means that your attachments would probably be along the lines of a Heartbeat Sensor, silencer, holographic sight, and for you, the box."

"The... box?"

"The box. Shepherd usually plugs it into rookies' guns. Just a tiny microfilm camera set to monitor your combat performance and reactions."

"Shepherd's a control freak, isn't he? Why does he care?"

"By the way, the box is activated at his discretion, meaning that it could be on right now, meaning that he heard that and is on his way here right now."

"Oh, please, he's talking to Admiral Drako or..."

Someone knocked—or, more appropriately, pounded on the hatch.

"No, he's not."

* * *

"What we have here is a Beretta M9," Dunn outlined, "also known as the 'Italian-piece-of-crap-that-somehow-gave-the-Colt-1911-the-boot.' Since that was too long to file on a 'This thing sucks' report, they just settled for 'piece-of-crap...' Hey, kid, you listening?"

"It's really cold in here..." Chiyo muttered. Exhaling, she could see her own breath in a cloud of steam—the meat locker must've done its job well before it switched from preservation of beefy freshness to preservation of human life. She realized that it was the first thing she had really complained about all day, despite the horrors she had already witnessed, but she still couldn't help but feel a little guilty, since she wasn't doing any of the fighting. "I... I'm sorry, it's just a little distracting..."

"Yeah, whatever. Look, Sleeping Beauty over there," he gestured to Raptor, unconscious against the wall, "isn't listening, and I've always hated feeling like I'm talking to myself, so just _try_ and pay attention, OK?"

"I'll try..."

"Good, that's all I needed. Now, back to pull-the-trigger 101." Dunn held up the pistol. "See how much this thing sucks? Don't drop it, or it might get an amoeba on the hammer and jam or some crap like that. Obvious lack of production competency aside, the operation's rather simple. Take your magazine here—loaded ones work best, if you have them—and slide it up into the grip, bullets facing nose-first down the barrel. At this point, you take the slide and jerk it back like this." He pulled back on the slide. "Now, being serious and speaking from experience, not condescending in any way, don't try it like this, or you'll get the web of your hand pinched. One thing the Italians got right on this thing is that the spring is powerful, and a pinch from this thing will convince you that not only are you not dreaming, but you never will again. Keep that in mind, all right?"

"All right..."

"Finally, you get to shooting people. Just point, line these three dots up on whoever you're mad at at the moment, and very steadily pull back the trigger. Don't jerk it and don't be scared of it, or you'll bump off your aim just before you shoot, which means three things. There's still someone there, they know where you are, and you have one less bullet to use on them."

"I think I understand it now. I've just never used a gun before."

"Sometimes, it's better that way, kid. One last thing—only shoot at them if there are less than four targets or if you're not alone. If you ARE, and there are four or more, don't bother with aiming." He put the pistol under his chin. "Get my drift?"

"Hehe... right..." Suddenly feeling a little worried for herself, she surreptitiously scooted away from Dunn and closer to the unconscious Raptor.

"Well, it would make things easier for me..." Dunn muttered, handing Chiyo the pistol and pulling out two magazines he had changed out, reloading one from the other. "If Ramirez was a medic, then HE'D be down here chewing his nails and trying to be the nice guy. Mean old Dunn just wants to have things back to normal, but what the hell ever. Stuck babysitting some stuck-up little girl... I bet the SEALs and D-boys and crap never have to put up with this type of..." At about that point, thankfully, his mumbling lost coherence, but Chiyo noted, with some worry, that Dunn had started forcing the rounds into the magazine in such a manner that he sliced into his thumb.

"Ow! Jeez, that stings..." he brought his thumb to his mouth just as the meat locker door opened. Foley walked in.

"Dunn, I... are you SERIOUSLY sucking your thumb, Corporal?"

"N-yeah." Pulling it from his lips, he showed the cut. "Loading a mag when this happened."

"The edges of the magazines are blunted for that very reason... how did... never mind. Ramirez is leading the counterattack on Burger Town, and we're going with him. Tristan will take over watching Falcon and Raptor."

"Oh, hell yeah!" Dunn couldn't get to his feet fast enough. "Well, good luck, kid! Hope a bomb drops on you or something! See ya!"

Foley rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Tristan entered the meat locker, which was then slammed shut once again.

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Shepherd, I have to ask you something." Osaka whispered into the radio, her laptop's backlight giving her gentle features a gaunt, haggard appearance. "The whole invasion thing... on America..."

"What're you getting at, Furball?" Shepherd replied hoarsely. He sounded like Osaka looked—tired and stressed.

"I was wondering if you knew anything about a Mihama studying in... Virginia, I think. Yeah, that's what she said..."

"Chiyo? Chiyo Mihama, you mean?"

"Yeah! That's it! How do you know about her? Is she all right?"

"As soon as VC was made on the invading forces, a scramble was made to get all high-value individuals that might be targeted specifically by the Russians away from the East Coast to ensure their safety. Most of them made it out OK, including her father, but there's been no confirmation on the younger Mihama ever having left the state."

"Oh... I see..."

"I wouldn't worry. She was put in with a unit I know personally... I served in it for around twenty years. They've never failed me before, and they won't start at a time like this."

"That makes sense, but... I still worry."

"Furball, there's only one thing you can do to help Mihama, and that's to help us. That modem you programmed is our best hope to opening up the Axis front. Even now, their soldiers are starting to land in the streets above you. There's a lot more at stake than just the lives of our respective countrymen—never forget that."

"...oh."

"Anyway, one of my Task Force soldiers was killed in action, so I pulled another from a Japanese unit. She'll be your flag carrier for the modem run. I'm sending you the file now."

The email icon in the action tray popped up, and clicking it, Osaka was shocked at what she saw.

"Tomo..." she breathed. Suddenly, she felt like something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong...

* * *

The IL-76 was filled with spirited cheering that Lance Corporal Mikhalkov didn't have the heart to join in, as the Lieutenant, Kruschev, led the entire parachute unit in the recital of the national anthem. Fortunately, there were enough people crammed into the plane to hide the Lance Corporal's lack of participation.

"_Predkami dannaya mudrost narodnaya! Slavsya, strana! My gordimsya toboy!" _the singing was loud enough that Mikhalkov knew it could be heard from the ground. He settled for raising his rifle in the cheer that followed.

"Soldiers!" Kruschev yelled, "Today, we fight not just for our country! Not just for our families! We fight because blood has been spilled within our own borders! We fight for vengeance! For the loved ones we lost to JOSEPH ALLEN!" The American's name was practically spit out, like it was a rotten fish. "We will not rest before death or before their blood has been repaid in blood a million times over! They will know the fear our brothers, sisters, cousins, parents felt before they were murdered by the hundreds! THEY WILL KNOW TERROR!"

Another round of cheering. Mikhalkov was still silent.

"Saving your breath for the killing, Lance Corporal?" Another soldier asked, elbowing him in the rib. "You were always the smart one, you know."

"I just don't understand why we're going to Japan. They wouldn't have fought unless they were attacked."

"Japan is a shell, Mikhalkov! The Americans crawl under their surface like termites, even if Japan looks like its own country!"

"Explain to me why we flew right around South Korea, then, Bardzecki?"

"Because they're getting their asses HANDED to them! Besides, as soon as we crush Japan under our boots, nothing can stop us from crossing the Pacific and assaulting America from the west!"

"RED LIGHT!"

"Today will be forever known to the American cowards as the beginning of the end!" Kruschev finished, turning to face the ramp.

"Bardzecki, don't get carried away. We are soldiers, not murderers. There is a difference between us and Allen that makes our cause just. Be moral."

"You should listen to yourself. I'm no softie."

"GREEN LIGHT! Go, go, GO!"

* * *

Author's note: No country-bashing was intended, of course. That means that Italy, I'm not saying you're a terrible country. I'm just trying to get the story along. Having said that, read and review, fellas!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes: Been a while since my last update, so I'll drop this in the box.

* * *

Tomo was curled up into a ball, her teeth chattering despite her thick parka. The Zodiac hit the crest of another wave, sending frigid water splashing down on its occupants- "Mailman," "Block," "Blacksmith," and herself, "Hellcat." Mailman, the Lieutenant and team leader, was leaning over the bow, taking most of the splash on his chest but not complaining.

"Slow us down a little, Block." He muttered, looking down the night vision scope. Surveying the shore, Tomo thought, as the Lieutenant observed something well beyond the pitch-black curtain of night. "Blacksmith, whatever you did to this thing, I want it done to every scope we have, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Blacksmith beamed.

"How can you guys stand it out here? It's freezing!" Tomo whined, shivering uncontrollably. The Type 89 in her hands had been refinished in a white tiger-stripe pattern and modified quite extensively with a brand new tactical rail mount, sporting a flip-out heartbeat sensor, a silencer, a thermal scope, and the mysterious black box that was watching her every move. Again, she felt the urge to wrap it with a bandana or something, but every scrap of cloth she had was currently being used in a vain attempt to keep her warm.

"Well, we're out on the water, now," Mailman pointed out, "and it'll likely get colder as we move inland. Tough break, Hellcat. We're used to it."

Block nodded, silently keeping the boat steady.

"All right, that being said," Mailman's voice dropped to a mumble as he returned to watching the coastline. "It... looks like we're clear. Gun it, Gunny."

"Sir." Block maxed the engine and the Zodiac began skirting across the water, lurching over every wave. Tomo could almost feel a bruise growing every time the boat flopped back into the water. When she'd been picked for the top secret black-ops team, this was NOT what she had in mind!

"Gold Eagle, this is Charlie Tango Seven, ETA to insertion point is three minutes, how copy, over?"

"Charlie Tango Seven, Gold Eagle. I read you. I'm going to transfer on-the-ground command of the operation to my agent, callsign Furball. Hellcat, that modem has priority over the lives of all four of you. Get it installed no matter what the cost, over."

"Yes, sir." Tomo replied, still freezing. "When do we get to kill people, already?"

"Use your judgment, Hellcat." Mailman reprimanded. "If we go in guns-a-blazing, chances are we'll get shot down before we even get to their base. That's why we brought in silencers instead of grenade launchers, capice?"

"Capice... man, this job is getting less and less awesome with every moment that goes by... I had more chance of tracking down that creep Makarov back in Interpol!"

"You had NO chance to track him down then. In my opinion, you have no chance of even being the one who plugs a bullet into his brain, either. Once we bring him to light and expose him for the fraud he is, people will line up from France to St Petersburg for the chance to segment his skull on the pavement."

"But, assuming we do figure out about him first, wouldn't we be first in line?" Blacksmith asked, wrapping a bleached rag around the unfinished black matte barrel of his C-8 rifle.

"I damn well wish. That man's psychotic. As much as I would love to hunt him down and slowly kill him once for every death he's caused in this goddamn war, I follow orders." Mailman delivered the monologue with some kind of primal determination in his voice. "At least I take pleasure in knowing that every mission I complete, every order I follow, and every objective I can list as successful in my AfAc report brings some lucky shooter closer to turning Vladimir Makarov into an obituary."

"No one'd care enough to write one about him." Block observed, not often partaking in the pre-mission chatter. "Not even the Ultranationalists. Most of the soldiers lost family during that attack—if they ever found out, there'd probably be a rebellion in the ranks. The Russian government covered up some pretty obvious details of the whole mess."

"That's what we'd hope for."

Groaning, Tomo looked over the side again. "How does he show up in public? It's not like he's one of those dime-a-dozen types of guys, what with his... hete... uh..."

"Heterochromia Iridum. Total difference in eye coloration. Probably wears contacts or sunglasses—the thing is, he doesn't show up in public at all, with the exception of his targets."

"Whatever, he does look pretty stupid. You could see him as a host on one of those creepy little kids shows. What would he be called? Bluegreen?"

"If you could be more painfully obvious, I'd love to see it. I imagine you name your pets according to this intricate formula?"

"Not only that! I gave one of my high-school friends the best nickname in the world! She came from Osaka, so we nicknamed her..."

"Radio check, radio check, this is Furball speaking. Charlie Tango Seven, please pick up, over..."

Tomo sat bolt upright, nearly tipping the boat over. "OSAKA?"

Osaka chuckled slightly at the reception. "It's been a while, Tomo. How've you been? I read that you got that job you always wanted."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Mailman cut in. "HELLCAT, FURBALL, I don't care where you two knew each other, no names on the radio!"

"Oh, don't worry, Mailman, Osaka's not my real name, anyway."

The Lieutenant groaned. "I don't care, you were issued the callsign 'Furball' and that's what everyone under my command will refer to you as. Great, now I'm talking down to Headquarters."

"But... how did you... I mean, what are you, a Captain or something?" Tomo hadn't quite recovered from her shock at being seconded to Osaka's command. "How in the hell do YOU join the military and OUTRANK ME?"

"Oh, I'm not actually in the military. I'm a contractor, I guess. I studied in America for a time, and I meant to stay and learn to be a schoolteacher, but I just kind of... drifted over to programming. Then, Gold Eagle offered me a job." Another chuckle. "It's great pay, but hardly what I thought it would be in any way."

"Uh..." Blacksmith said quietly, suddenly pulling Tomo over. "Hey, who is this woman?" He whispered, barely audible over the waves striking the boat.

"She's a friend of mine from high school. Weirdest person you'd ever meet. I had some strange friends."

"Does she like guns?" He asked desperately.

"I... don't think so, but I've never been sure what she likes... other than sea slugs. What're you driving at?"

"Well, my dad always joked I should make it a point to find a girl who shares my interests, and in Canada, that'd be hard..."

"Oh, I get it. Hang on a sec." Tomo nodded. "Hey, Furball, Blacksmith's got a thing for you. Just sayin'."

"Actually, I could hear that entire conversation, anyway. Sorry, Blacksmith, but I'm not really..." glancing around the sewers she was hidden in, she shook her head. "I'm not really in a position to go anywhere."

Mailman looked like he was going to tear his hair out. Noticing his frustrated appearance, Block made one of his rare jokes. "Shep's gonna have a time of it going over the radio tapes, huh?" He asked.

"Like I care what _he_ thinks. I was a SEAL before Drako recommended me to the Task Force. I fight for the Admiral and the United States, not for Shepherd. Drako doesn't see his units as disposable blue dots on a radar screen. When Shepherd hears 'danger close,' he says 'bombs away.' He almost killed my last team because someone fudged the numbers." Mailman sighed, listening to the conversation with Furball spiraling deeper and deeper into absolute insanity. "What about you, Block? You were a Marine, right?"

"First Force Recon." The Gunnery Sergeant replied curtly.

"The one that... you were there when the ball dropped? Holy shit, how're you alive?"

"I was wounded and being ferried out. Watched out the back hatch as the rest of the helicopters all went down... it's the kind of scene that makes you die a little inside."

"I'm... I'm sorry for your loss, Gunny. I had no idea."

"That's why I support the General. I know what kind of loss he went through, and what it can do to you. When you lose 30,000 men, losing a few more doesn't seem that important any more. It stays with you forever."

"If we WERE to get married, which country would we live in?" Osaka asked, "I mean, no offense, but I don't know anything about Canada..."

"Why don't we live in America? I can't speak Japanese worth anything... Well, if we win the war, of course, because if we lose, it'd suck to live there. But still, if we win, there's a nice, open country with some loose gun laws, unlike Japan _or_ Canada..."

Mailman groaned again, glaring at both Tomo and Blacksmith. Tomo, feeling the daggers shooting out of his eyes, turned around and shrugged.

"I tried." She said innocently.

"OK, seriously, we're hitting the beach in less than a minute. Can the chatter, already. You're giving me a headache."

"Hey, tough break. I'm used to it."

* * *

Mikhalkov looked over the Tokyo battlefield from his aerial vantage point, the tugging of the parachute on his harness hardly bothering the well-trained and professional soldier. Even before his eyes reached the ground, he noticed all the parachutes and categorized the soldiers. The Russians, like him, were wearing bloodred urban camouflage that, ironically, didn't help them much unless they were in a used red car parking lot or a huge pool of gore. The North Koreans looked a little too showy for combat, their clean and neatly-pressed brown uniforms covered by tactical vests and such. The Chinese wore silver camouflage patterns, thus appearing the most businesslike out of everyone. He realized that they probably WERE, since they didn't have as much of a 'vengeance drive' against the Japanese as the other two countries.

At the battle level, the scene was awe-inspiring. Massive columns of heavy armor, a mixture of North Korean P'okpoon and Ch'onma Hos, Russian T-90s, and BMPs that Mikhalkov couldn't quite associate from his vantage point, supported by Chinese armored cars and supply trucks, plus a huge crowd of infantry. Two formations of North Korean Mi-24s thundered over the procession and above an abandoned city block, strafing it with 23mm cannon as they passed. As if to prove they were there as well, four MiG-29s, also NK, swooped low over the battlefield, releasing packets of cluster bombs with some form of impunity.

"They're not taking any prisoners, are they?" Mikhalkov asked himself. The North Koreans had always harbored a deep resentment for Japan, having been under its Imperial thumb up until the Second World War ended. Since then, its hatred had only grown, flames fanned by propaganda and crazed nationalism, until this once-in-a-lifetime chance to settle their scores caused them to explode.

Suddenly, two F-15s with JASDF markings tore by, being chased down by a swarm of MiG-21s, predictably with Korean markings. Mikhalkov felt the sudden gust yank against his parachute and suck the harness into his stomach, driving the breath out of him. Although he recovered quickly, he had been turned around and blown across the city, and had lost sight of his team. He hit the ground alone and with no idea where he was.

To make matters worse, his harness jammed, causing a sudden gust of wind to drag him across the ground for about fifty meters, sanding down the finish on his AK-47 and further disorienting him. Even when he finally freed himself from the rogue chute, he just laid there, gasping for breath for a second.

"Freaking... flyboys..." he panted, hauling himself to his feet sluggishly. "Those North Korean guys are falling over each other to kill whoever they can get their hands on... it's like a couple million Bardzeckis, together in one place." Smirking, he unslung his rifle and examined it, noting that the left side was bruised, but the rifle was still functional. Aks can go through anything, can't they? Looking around at the vacant houses lining the street, he began making his way towards, or at least, hopefully towards the highway.

* * *

Endgame: Sorry that this seems a little rushed, but I was a little rushed for a few days.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: Double-timed and uploaded because one of my favorite authors added to their favorite stories. Priorities, people!

* * *

The zodiac finally hit the beach, and the four-person team on board hopped over the sides and dug their boots into the Siberian snow. It was dark and frigid, icy cold, but such environments were to be endured in the elite Task Force 141.

"Furball, Charlie Tango Seven." Drawing back the charging handle on his ACR, Mailman began his radio report to headquarters. "Feet on land, beginning to move inland. Need directions, over."

"Hear you, Charlie. Let's see... head west 2-6-5 and you should come up on a road within half an hour. Hit that and follow it south, I'll keep you posted, over."

"Copy that. CT-7 out." Mailman confirmed. "You heard the lady, let's get going." He held up his rifle, slapping it against Blacksmith's C-8, Tomo's '89, and Block's bayonet-armed M16.

"Oorah." Block reflexed. "Who's sniper bait?"

Mailman grinned through his balaclava. "Was planning on the FNG."

Tomo whirled around. "What was that? Because..."

"Sir," Block cut her off, "requesting permission to take sniper-bait."

"If you insist, Gunny. Let's move it out."

"Hey, Hellcat."

Tomo fell in beside Blacksmith, the two taking flank guard for the squad. "What'dya need?"

"You said you knew Furball from high school. I think I'm going to need some help if this is going to work out."

"Hehe... yeah, don't get your hopes up, pal." Looking down the thermal sight of her rifle, Tomo couldn't help but laugh at her newest friend. "Osaka is not the romantic type. Chances are, if you two meet after this war's over, let alone get married... well, it just doesn't work. Besides, I really don't think she likes guns as much as you do..."

She shrugged. "In fact, I don't even know if she's taking you seriously."

"Is she pretty?"

"Well... I don't know how to answer you that one. She's not ugly, but she's not really sexy or anything. She's Japanese."

"If you two went to high school together, even I should suppose so, but..."

"Not the literal type of Japanese... yeah, she is that, too, but that was just our categorization."

"As if that mattered. I asked if she looked good, not tore shirts."

"Wait... that really doesn't matter to you?"

"Should it?"

"You're a strange man, Blacksmith."

"You guys always forget to turn off your headsets, you know." Osaka broke in. "I'm snooping in on Axis radio chatter. Strange stuff here. They're talking about something called 'The Pyotr Wrangel.'"

"Pyotr Nikolayevich Wrangel?" Mailman inquired, "The Black Baron? Hate to tell you this, but he died almost a century ago."

"It sounds like an organization of some sort... from context, it's likely a resistance group. Check your targets—Axis troops sound a little spooked by these guys."

"Wilco."

"Hey, Furball, you never talked like that back in high school! What gives?"

"Oh, that. Mr... I mean, Gold Eagle told me that I'd be out of a job if I kept giving him headaches, so I've got to keep my mind focused... it gets pretty hard. Oh, by the way, what does Yomi do for a living?"

"Yomi? Oh, she's... I'm not sure. Some kind of TV producer or something. She's always out filming, but she visits me whenever she's home."

"You two just can't get rid of each other, can you? It's too bad she thinks you're dead... they were running it in the papers right before the storm hit Tokyo."

"Figures, huh? Well, once this whole thing's over, she'll have a visit from her undead best friend."

"Do you think we're going to win?" Osaka asked nervously.

"Well, if I'm here, it's only a matter of time before we take the whole Axis down!"

"If you say so..."

"Enough back there." Mailman reprimanded. "You guys just don't stop talking, do you? Furball, give me everything you have on this Pyotr Wrangel mob."

"Sorry, Mailman, but that isn't much. The Axis are searching the entire tundra for their cell headquarters in the area, but haven't had any luck. They're ferrying in reinforcements to augment their search by armored convoys and a train station, both coming in from the west and looping around south to approach their own regional HQ from the east. From above... it kinda looks like a candy cane..."

"Stay focused, Furball. If we miss our stop with the convoy, will it be faster to jump on the train?"

"Let's see... your ambush point is just half a mile north from a swerving section of train track. The train would be forced to slow down... factoring everything in, if you could make the half mile in seven minutes and somehow get yourselves on board, it's looking pretty good."

"So, we've got our backup plan."

Then, their entire plan was changed as Fleet Admiral Drako opened a line with the team.

"Charlie Tango Seven, this is Drako. Urgent! Do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Skipper, go ahead." Mailman said appreciatively, "You sound flustered."

"DAMN right I am! If the Jazz-Daf were able to keep their evac birds EAST of Japan..." He used the 'short' pronunciation for JASDF, "I'd be merrily pinning donkey-asses on Honorable President Vorshevsky's picture and finalizing my plans for the counterattack! But... God Dammit, General Yashita just _informed_ me that one hour ago, one of his Kawasaki C-2 transports, flying US personnel as well as Japanese civvies, was COERCED from its flight plan to McCord AFB and redirected to MOTHER-F..." he took a deep breath. "Look, my men and a whole boat-load of innocent people are going off to Siberia for God-knows-what... I know you boys are taxed enough as it is, but I need you to do something about this. We can't just go in there guns-a-blazing if there's POWs in the way." There was a pause.

"Admiral," Osaka asked, breaking the silence, "I think I know where they're headed. There are three recently erected airfields that the Axis have been using to fly in their soldiers. They're all further west where there's less snowstorm activity. Those depots are all along their train and road routes, which means they're likely being shipped directly to the Axis headquarters..."

"Don't sweat it, Admiral." Mailman hummed, brushing the frost off the screen of his GPS and tracing a plan with his finger. "Tell Yashita that... tell him that those people are as good as safe. We're splitting up. Hellcat, you and Block are resuming the mission as planned. Blacksmith and I are heading west by train or truck—whatever they feel like loading the prisoners on to. Admiral, requesting an extraction chopper ASAP once the modem is in place."

"Hell, Lieutenant, I'd winch up the Eiffel Tower and ship it here if you can pull this off. Sure, I'll send in a couple of Sea Knights to evac the civilians. If you make this work, you're going to save a lot of asses, including mine."

"We copy that, Drako. Commencing amended mission plan. Interrogative, where is that plane now, over?"

"From here..." Osaka muttered, "hmm... yeah, should be passing directly over your position right about now."

"All right. Blacksmith, let's move! We'll hit the train tracks and follow 'em as far as we can. Block... you were paying attention, I know. Let's make it happen!"

"Yes, sir." Block intoned, tapping Tomo on the shoulder.

* * *

Foreboding hung thick in the air of the Kawasaki transport as it made its gloomy way over the Siberian tundra. It had only been an hour since the Russian interceptors had used their missiles to force the plane to divert—the Vympel R-37 had a much longer range than any missile the Allies fielded, and by locking on to the C-2 and using a stolen radio frequency to order the plane off its flight path and warn its escorts away, the Russians had captured everyone on board without even firing a shot.

The unnerved civilians on board muttered silently to each other, alternating from panic to disbelief, and wondered what would happen to them. The Marines on board were silent, since they KNEW what would happen to them. As much as they would have liked to fight once the plane hit the ground, they knew that such an act would most likely end with the slaughter of everyone aboard, including the civilians, which was a chance they couldn't take.

Kaorin couldn't stand the feeling of hopelessness, despite having well lost her hope faster than everyone else. As she watched the disheartened passengers toil through their conversation, trying in vain to cheer each other, she noticed one woman in particular who seemed gracefully resigned to their collective fate. One woman she hadn't seen for years... her heart skipped a beat and she jumped from her seat to talk to her.

"M... Miss Sakaki? You're here, too?" She stammered.

"Yeah... it's been a while, hasn't it?"

"I know, right?" The elation from meeting her long-time crush faded as she remembered their situation. "If... if only we could've met at a better time..."

"Hm..."

The ride continued for another half hour in silence before Kaorin spoke again.

"What do you think's going to happen, Miss Sakaki? Are we going to be OK?"

"Don't worry, Kaori. It's going to be fine. Just listen to whatever they have to say and we'll all be OK."

"If you say so..."

Before she was able to finish, the transport slammed hard into the ground, throwing both Sakaki and Kaorin to the ground. Kaorin felt her head slug the seat in front of her before she lost consciousness.

* * *

"So, where you from, kid?" Specialist Tristan asked in his distinct Southern accent, his fingers jittering on the grip of his M16. "Japanese, right?"

"Yes... I came here for college." Both of them tensed as a booming, muffled explosion echoed through the walls of the meat locker. "I had no idea any of this was going to happen, but I'm glad you guys came to help me."

"Hey, don't sweat it. At least we got you instead of some panicky-ass politician or something. You're holding together pretty well for your age."

"Are... are you sure I'm not being a burden? Mr. Dunn said..."

"Mr. Dunn? Naw, kid, Corporal Dunn's behavior is not indicative of the rest of us." Hearing the word 'indicative' in a Southern accent reminded Chiyo not to judge a book by its cover. Chuckling, Tristan continued. "Just 'cause he's the second in command doesn't mean I like him. Most of the guys love him because he's funny their way."

He stopped. "I know I'm not really answering your question there, kid. Look, I'm not gonna lie to you, there's a few soldiers who are tired of looking after someone else's ass. There's a few who do it because they follow orders and don't really have an opinion. But the rest of us... man, Private Ramirez treats you like you're his own daughter. Trust me, you're not being a burden to anyone important."

"You really mean that?"

"Well, sure I do! My mama didn't raise no liars. Now... hang on a sec." Setting the rifle down and covering his ears, Tristan tapped the radio. "Yeah, Tristan here... No, Sarge, everything's just fine down here. We're shakin', but not stirred... Ramirez? Hey, man, I told you five minutes ago, you don't need to worry about 'er! She's fine, and she will be in five minutes when you call again, and five minutes after that! Oh, and by the way, just in case anyone cares, Raptor's kinda gettin' on my nerves with all his snorin' and crap. Uh-huh, I thought so."

He grinned, looking back up at Chiyo with his playful brown eyes. "See, kid? If Sergeant Foley cares about you, that's all you really need. We'll get you on with the convoy and you'll be at the shelter in time for corn flakes. You've just gotta trust us."

"If you say so..." Chiyo picked up a sound coming from somewhere... it sounded like she was back at the airport... right before her eyes, Tristan's cheerful expression drained away.

"Oh, shit... Kid, hit the deck!" Without warning, he threw himself on top of both Raptor and Chiyo, just as the bomblets from the passing fighters tore the meat locker apart. With her eyes squinted shut, she couldn't see anything, and with her ears ringing, she couldn't hear, but she felt a warm liquid seeping through her jacket and shirt. As her hearing recovered, she picked up the now clear gunfire, explosions, and Tristan's labored breathing and muttered curses.

"Ah... Ow... Dammit..." He wheezed, rolling off of his two charges and coughing up blood. "So much... for bulletproof... Argh!"

Chiyo couldn't quite describe the next few minutes and recognize herself afterward. Fighting back panic and disgust, she remembered studying for medicine back at the University, which had been taught by an enigmatic professor who had served in Vietnam as a medic. Thus, he often made assignments pertaining to battlefield medicine and first aid as a 'just in case' measure. Silently, she thanked the man as she recalled the sucking chest wound treatment.

"Tristan, hold still!" She pleaded. There was a small trickle of blood coming out of a hole in the side of the tac vest, but as she pulled off each new layer of Tristan's combat uniform, the warm, red liquid increased in quantity. She nearly gagged. "Try to hold your breath."

"Come in, Tristan! Tristan, do you copy?" Tristan's radio vented...

"DAMMIT TRISTAN!" Ramirez screamed, "PICK UP!" Across the parking lot, he couldn't tell if anyone in the restaurant had survived the bombing. "SARGE! What the HELL just happened?"

"We're OK!" Foley gasped, the sound clipping the static on the radio, "Status of the HVIs and Tristan is unconfirmed at this point. It doesn't seem good from here, though. Corporal Dunn, get your ass over here. Looks like you got your wish. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on your way out."

"But Sarge... I didn't... really..."

"Stow it, soldier. Check on those HVIs. Overlord, Hunter 2-1 Actual, we may have just lost Falcon and Raptor. Awaiting confirmation, over."

The lull in the fighting made an eerie half-silence settle into Corporal Dunn's ears as he ran across the parking lot and to the side of Nate's, where the ceiling seemed to have been blown off.

_Hope a bomb drops on you or something,_ he'd said. He hadn't actually MEANT that!

Shifting a distended piece of the wall off of the door and forcing it open, he was surprised to see that not only were the two HVIs OK, but the girl had just finished the 'flapper valve' to cover up Tristan's side from a sucking chest wound. Throwing off his vest, Dunn got on the horn.

"Sarge, Falcon and Raptor are A-OK, but Tristan's hit! Where's that convoy we've been waiting on?" He patted Chiyo on the shoulder. "Not bad, but I'll take it from here... hell, kid, what's there left for me to do? Tristan, how do you feel?"

"I was gettin' better before you showed up, sir." Tristan chuckled in a strained voice, hacking up a small trickle of blood, "Thanks for asking."

"Yeah, quit the smartassing, I was worried about you guys. Scared the hell out of all of us."

"Heartwarming, Corporal."

Sighing with relief, Dunn turned to Chiyo. "Well, kid, don't let it go to your head or anything, but... good job. And about what I said..."

"It's all right. I understand."

"Hunter 2-1, this is Nightmare, we're leading the convoy into the shopping center now and rolling out the red carpet. Get the lead out before the Ruskies regroup, over!"

"Copy that, Nightmare. Team, let's move out."

* * *

Author's endgame: I wanted to put a lot more action into this one, but most of the stories (Other than Mikhalkov's and Bardzecki's) are currently in transit and the chapter was getting a little bulky.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: On the war path! Let's go ahead and check on those crazy Russians and add even more characters to this mess!

* * *

"Lance Corporal Mikhalkov!" Kruschev demanded, "Where in the hell are you, over? Respond!"

Mikhalkov tapped the radio. "Lieutenant, I fell way off course. Not sure of my position, so I'm trying to regroup with a convoy from the highway."

"Copy that. Keep your eyes open—the reports are all focused on ambushes and that sort of thing! The only one here that has the authority to kill you is ME, understood?"

"Understood, sir! I'll keep you posted, Mikhalkov out."

It wasn't necessarily eerie, since the whole 'on the dangerous road alone' effect was extremely hampered by the gunfire and explosions from other areas of the city, but Mikhalkov knew that he could very well be being watched. The point of an ambush was NOT to be seen, heard, or even smelled until it was too late.

Then, he heard a noise around the corner, in a nearby alleyway, and flattened himself against the wall to peek around. _What's going on in there?_

"Dammit! Let me go!" Bardzecki demanded, as the JGSDF soldiers forced him against the wall in restraint. One of them snarled at him in Japanese as he drew a leather strap from his pocket and jerked it tight around the Private's wrists.

"Private... what on Earth did you do?" Mikhalkov sighed, weighing his options. Suddenly, a plan came to his mind.

* * *

It was a hastily prepared interrogation room, but what wasn't hastily prepared in this city? Bardzecki was dragged in by the two JGSDF men and forcibly secured to a chair, and despite the Private's efforts, he was soon fastened tightly and merely rubbing raw patches into his wrists.

"Good luck getting out of there before the Leading Private gets here!" One laughed cruelly in fragmented, accented Russian.

"Are you thick? Your pathetic resistance is all futile! You will all be crushed, count on it!"

"Wrong answer." After relaying Bardzecki's words in Japanese, the soldier and his companion began howling with laughter. "I would pity you, Russian, but it took you but a few hours to earn everything coming to you."

"Wow, this guy's nuts." His companion commented, watching the young Russian soldier screaming and swearing himself red in the face. "Even more zealous than I thought."

"Hey, that means we get to watch him interrogated longer."

The two laughed again, but stood at attention as the Leading Private entered the room.

"Ma'am!" They both shouted, their faces wiped of all expression.

"Hm, not bad, Hatsu." Kagura said dryly. "At ease. Time for a little payback. Someone get me my baseball bat."

"Yes, ma'am!" Hatsu disappeared from the room, leaving Kagura and the other soldier alone with the prisoner.

"Be glad you can't speak Russian, Mikawa. Some of the stuff this guy's saying... it would break your tender little heart."

"After losing Sakumi, I don't think much else could hurt me any more." Sighing, Mikawa kicked the Russian in the shin, met with a renewed, enraged shriek. "Couldn't we just kill him? Like he'd do any better to us if he were in our position."

"I understand you, Private, but that's not a smart thing to do. We're above that."

"Your bat, ma'am!" Hatsu returned with the aluminum bat, which Kagura accepted with a grin.

"However, we're not above this." Clearing her throat, she approached the Russian and shifted languages.

"Hey there, Ivan. How're ya doing?" The woman chirped, slapping the end of the bat against her palm. "Kind of a mess you guys made, eh?"

"The ones who made the mess were the Americans you allow in your borders!" Bardzecki retorted, despite the hollow feeling in his chest at the sight of the baseball bat. It is the duty of any soldier to remain strong and vigilant, even in the face of injury and/or death. "We're cleaning it up!"

"Is that so?" Pushing up Bardzecki's chin with the bat, the woman scowled slightly. "What possible value could the Americans gain from a terrorist attack like the Zakhaev shooting? Consider that for even a second? Didn't think so. Whatever, I'm not here to have a debate with you. I want information, but I can already tell..." she bumped the bat into Bardzecki's jaw, "it's not going to be easy."

"Not just difficult, but impossible!" Having bit his tongue, Bardzecki tasted blood.

"Ha. Everyone has their price." An evil grin accompanied her next words, "Let's find yours, shall we?"

As she wound up to strike him in the kneecap, an explosion sounded off just outside the building, causing her and her subordinates to turn away, shouting in Japanese again. After a rapid exchange of words, they broke from the room and made their escape.

"Damn! There's some luck, right there!" The Russian laughed. "HEEYYY! SOMEONE DOWN THERE COME AND GIVE ME A HAND!"

After a minute, a flashbang grenade flew into the room, blinding and deafening Bardzecki. When he came to, Mikhalkov was cutting his straps with his knife.

"Lance Corporal! What was THAT for?" He demanded, standing up but nearly falling over again, dazed from being flashed.

"Oh, sorry. I thought you'd be booby-trapped for sure." Mikhalkov replied jokingly, supporting Bardzecki to his feet. "Your welcome, by the way."

"Where's the others?"

"What others? We must've strayed too far during the landing—I've seen neither hide nor hair of anyone on our side since the drop."

"Oh. So it was just you."

"Nope. The gremlins helped out, too."

"OK, I get the idea. _Thank you. _Now, we've got to go!"

"Couldn't agree with you more." Passing the Private his rifle, Mikhalkov outlined their plan. "We've got to get to the highway and hitch a ride with one of those convoys. All our maps are screwed up because of all the barriers along the city streets, and we'll be much safer from ambushes."

"That sounds like a plan!"

* * *

"Admiral Drako," a young voice hissed through the speaker on the Admiral's office phone, "General Yashita is on the phone, line two."

"Thank you, Seaman App." Drako took a swig of coffee from the stainless steel thermos and brought the phone to his ear, pressing the '2' on its pad. "General, I'm doing everything I can, so if you could kindly STOP bugging me?"

"Fleet Admiral, you don't understand. It's of the utmost importance that you recover the plane's cargo before the Axis can get their hands on it!"

"Yashita, the Axis _already_ have their hands on it! We're trying to swat them off! Those prisoners are practically our top priority..."

"Not just the prisoners, Admiral. There's something far more important that was on board."

Drako let out a groan. "Would it be too much to ask you to QUIT BEING MYSTERIOUS? What else WAS there on that plane?"

"That's classified information."

"Listen here, Yashita! I have a 'Top Fucking Secret' security rating and a DAMN GOOD 'need to know' justification, so you can just shove this whole 'classified' shtick up your ass and tell me what the hell my men are supposed to be looking for!"

"They should know it when they see it."

"And I'll order them not to bother with it until you fricking tell me what it is! Think about it, Yashita!" Slamming the phone into the receiver, Drako fell back in his chair again. "God DAMN IT! Even the top dog gets no respect... whatever the hell that guy's talking about, I'm beginning to doubt his trustworthiness."

He picked up the phone again and pressed a button.

* * *

"We're in transit, Admiral. ETA's ten minutes, over." Signaling Blacksmith to get down, Mailman dug a small impression into the snow and squeezed his body into it.

"Lieutenant, that's not all that I called you up for."

"You're quieter, Admiral, but you sound even more frustrated than last time. What happened?"

"General Yashita just told me that there was something other than passengers on board that Japanese plane, but he's being an ass about it. Simultaneously ordering me to retrieve it and refusing to give me any information on what I should be looking for... Dammit, that guy just rubs me the wrong way."

"He's not a popular general with his JGSDF soldiers, either." Mailman reminded him. "Fled to California as soon as evacuation began, unlike the rest of the Japanese brass."

"Son, I'm loading you guys with work, so just keep this as an opportunity. If you find anything that might correlate with Yashita's lust... extract it. Bring it to the Reagan as discreetly as possible. I'm the only one who will know about it—I'll just tell Yashita and Shepherd that whatever it was, we didn't find it. I'm suspecting that those two aren't telling me everything."

"That's a copy, skipper. If we get a fix, you'll be the first to know. You can count on us."

There was an audible sigh of relief from the other end of the radio. "I thank God every day for sailors like you, Lieutenant. One more thing... I _didn't mean to tell you this, _got it? Stay frosty."

"Not too hard out here. Don't worry, Admiral, we can keep a secret. Over and out."

Blacksmith tilted his head in confusion. "Sir, what does this mean? Some kinda conspiracy or something? You think there's something going on behind our backs?"

Pulling himself out of his temporary camouflage shelter, Mailman didn't even bother to brush off the extra snow. "Not behind our backs, Private, over our heads. The Admiral's doing us a tremendous favor by telling us what he has, and knowing him, he's not in the best of moods about being bossed around by a two-star general like Yashita. But, in any case, whatever this 'conspiracy' is, it's up in the world of flag and staff."

"Sir, I'm not a Private, I'm a Fusilier."

"Right, right, you came through Spec-ops from the Grenadiers... E-1's still E-1. Get Block on the horn..."

Suddenly, the snowbank behind Mailman erupted in a flurry of powder, as a pair of arms swiftly and suddenly grabbed his head and neck, pulling him to the ground. With a cry, Blacksmith fumbled for the pistol in his holster, but even as his fingers found the grip, a rapid impact from his side drove the wind out of him and forced him to the snow as well.

* * *

Koplov should've seen his attacker coming. Surveying the swirling tundra through the scope, he hadn't heard the bootsteps crunching in the snow behind him until it was well too late. Spinning and jamming the butt of his rifle in the assailant's direction, he was met with failure as his well-prepared adversary countered the advance squarely and hooked the gun, tossing it aside. Even though he tried, Koplov couldn't clearly see his attacker's face.

He doubled up his fist and wound up for a punch, which the shadow stepped inside of, knocking Koplov so far off-balance that he spun around and landed, face first, in the snow. As he tried to rise, he heard the snap of a pistol slide being racked, and squinted his eyes shut.

* * *

"We're all here, Colonel." Kamarov reported.

"Thank you, Sergeant." Colonel Wrangel was the kind of man that age didn't spare in appearance, but did so in energy. 'Wrangel' wasn't his born name—since he had been a major member of the Soviet and, later, Russian Federation military, he had his name illegally changed to obscure his identity. However, he was a descendant of the White Army general of the early 20th century.

He was standing with his most trusted team of elites, the Blackshirts, named so as a tradition. The original Pyotr Wrangel was known as 'the Black Baron' because his top soldiers were dressed in black. Among the Colonel's number were Sergeant Kamarov, Junior Sergeant Koplov, and Privates Norvid and Piotrowsky, who were all former Spetsnaz operators.

"The invasion of Japan is currently underway, as you all know." He intoned, as he and his team observed the table map. "One could say they had it coming, even. For half a century, Japan has been the bad guy in Asia, with China, Russia, and Korea being the relative good. It's funny how things change, but stay the same... now, China, Russia, and Korea are the bad guys, and Japan's the good guy. Yet... it still means that Japan is the odd one out."

"Beautiful history lesson, Colonel. Maybe you should look into teaching after the war." Koplov remarked. "Whenever we can get our mission, however..."

"There's plenty of mission for you, Junior Sergeant." The Colonel dropped a picture on the table. The date was vague, but placed it some time during the Chechen war. Makarov was present, as his face was unmistakable, as well as several of his confidents, three of whom were crossed out. One was circled.

"What am I looking at, Colonel?" Kamarov inquired.

"You're looking at Makarov's closest friend. 'Colonel' Viktor Abazzy, AKA, Viktor Baskov. The two go way back, all the way to their military academy days. It's likely he was present during the Zakhaev massacre." He pushed a pin into the map. "He'll be boarding a train right around here at 1-230 hours."

"After the hefty introduction," Koplov snorted, "I was hoping for something more gratifying than simple wet work."

"You're not killing him, you're capturing him. It's up to you to get on board that train and pick him up."

"Why capture him?"

"Viktor is Makarov's mad dog killer among mad dog killers. Sick, twisted, fiendish... cowardly. He's working undercover with the Russian military now, and assuming the identity of an intelligence Colonel that's probably at the bottom of a river with his feet stuck in cement shoes, he's been playing havoc, relaying valuable intel directly to Makarov and altering it for the Russian government, read the Axis, and thus they know the whole story well before President Vorshevsky ever does. Remember, Makarov's still smarting over his ejection from the Ultranationalist party."

"Mad dog... sounds more like 'lap dog' to me." Norvid quipped.

Wrangel smiled. "There's a new leash law in town. Let's make it happen, Blackshirts."

_**

* * *

CLICK.**_

_W... what?_ Koplov thought.

"You're getting sloppy, Junior Sergeant." Kamarov's familiar, gruff voice growled as he holstered the Mauser C96 he owned for reasons Koplov couldn't fathom, "maybe I should've given that promotion to someone a little more attentive?" He held out a hand.

"Sergeant? I... I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again!" Koplov accepted the hand gratefully. Even though he had just been critiqued by his commanding officer, that's better than what he had been expecting.

"Don't give me excuses, Koplov. Give me results and I might forgive you." A trace of a smile crossed his face. "Blackshirts are never seen from behind."

"Understood, sir!"

Kamarov collected Koplov's rifle—a white-finished Mosin Nagant sniper rifle—from the snow and returned it to the man. "Norvid and Piotrowsky are going to meet us here any minute now. What'd you call me here for?"

"Look down there."

Just a hundred meters or so ahead, there was a Japanese transport plane that had a few Russian trucks parked outside of it. Koplov had to peer through the scope in order to see it, but Kamarov's eyes were much better trained and accustomed to the dark, cold winters in Siberia.

"A Japanese plane? Why is it all the way out here?" Kamarov puzzled. "It's not even likely to be a special forces mount, with that bright orange and white paint job."

Koplov squinted. "You're right... they look like they're trying to find something. There's a group coming out now.

Kamarov nodded.

"Look at that." He observed. "Those two soldiers are carrying some kind of package."

"You're right. That thing... that's huge." A closer inspection through the scope revealed lettering on the side in Japanese, which Koplov didn't claim to speak, and English, which he spoke very fluently. "Multivac?"

"Hm... Multivac." Kamarov said thoughtfully. "Junior Sergeant, have you ever considered how much technology has changed the battlefield?"

"What does this..."

"Isaac Asimov wrote stories about a supercomputer named 'Multivac.' Seems like someone's been reading their classics." He puzzled over it for a second before continuing. "Technology rules the war zone these days. It isn't the biggest gun that matters any more, it's accuracy. Precision that no human can muster. If Multivac in this case is what I think it is... we've got one hell of a crisis on our hands."

"Sergeant." Through a heavy blanket of interference, Norvid's voice faltered out of Kamarov's radio headset. "This is Norvid. Piotrowsky is bruised up, but I believe we've got compensation for that!"

"Norvid? What do you mean?"

"We picked up a couple of spec-ops soldiers that agreed to help us out."

* * *

"Back at the _wheel!_" Dunn sang out, as he spun the steering wheel of the Humvee to take the left turn. "Man, I never thought I'd LOVE the long, peaceful road trips! All those years of escorting nuclear convoys, thinking I had the worst damn job in the world! Sarge, remember the last time we ate over at Nate's, when we told those college bums that next time we went there, we'd show 'em our uniforms?"

"I remember that. Too bad they weren't there today, or they would've gotten one hell of a show." Foley looked back at Chiyo and Ramirez, the latter of whom was speaking quietly with the former on some matter that was most likely to keep both of their minds off the constant danger they faced. Raptor was awake, sitting in the leftover seat and not saying a word, probably swearing off conversation with the other two in shock. "Private, how're you two holding up?"

"Fine, sir." Ramirez said, even though his voice still shook. "Sarge, did you know that this girl was so smart? I'm being lectured on battlefield medicine from someone who before today has never been in a battlefield!"

"She's a teenager that's in college, Ramirez. What'd you expect... Falcon, what's that?"

Foley had only just noticed a blue knapsack that Chiyo was wearing, probably because it was so thin that it blended with her jacket, which was the exact same hue... save for blood splatters from Tristan and a few tears that revealed a periwinkle shirt. The added contrast made the bag clearly visible in this instance. Chiyo scooted back in her seat an inch or so.

"What do you mean, Mr. Foley?" She asked nervously.

"That bag. What's in it?"

"Nothing important. Just my laptop."

"Hm..." Foley turned back ahead, just as another Humvee heeled to theirs and its inhabitants called out.

"Sarge!" Wade yelled from the driver's seat. Wade was a younger soldier, snarky and sarcastic, and often seemed like he wasn't listening to whoever was talking. He had developed a cross-listening talent from a lifetime of listening to his parents talk while he was on his cell phone. "Nice to see you care about us, sir!"

"Private Wade, what the hell are you talking about?"

McChord, up on the M2 MG on the roof of the adjacent Humvee, carried on the conversation in his booming voice, which was befitting of a soldier who had aced every physical requirement with flying colors, save for the running test, which he very nearly flunked. Looking at him made one wonder how such a bulky trooper was even possible. "You left us with a Humvee that's got holes shot in most of the cupholders!" He roared, shaking a fist at the end of a very muscular arm, "Where're we supposed to keep our Bud in here?"

"What?"

Wade and McChord burst out laughing, "Nah, we're just playing," McChord said, "Just wanted to check up on the little flower up here, like gentlemen! Hey, Sandler, say hello to the nice lady!"

Sandler was the only soldier there that wasn't wearing a helmet... since he was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, one leg casually resting over the other, his boonie cover gave him the impression of a cowboy—no wonder, as he was known as 'the Gunslinger' for his exceptional skill with his M9, honed through years of sixgunning competitions before deciding to put those skills to practical use. Quiet and reserved, Sandler had many comrades in the unit due to his likeable personality, but only a few 'friends.'

His head turned slightly in her direction, and he lifted one arm up in a wave—then dug his fingers into the seat as a mortar shell landed just aside the road, causing his Humvee to swerve erratically. Foley was on the radio in an instant.

"Ambush!" He screamed, so that any nearby Humvees with radio trouble might hear him as well, "AMBUSH!"

Another mortar shell landed dangerously close to Chiyo's vehicle, showering them with dirt and chunks of pavement.

Normally, Overlord's conversations with the Sergeant were mute to Chiyo, but now that he was using the Humvee's radio instead, she could hear it clearly.

"Hunter 2-1, Overlord, be advised, multiple enemy helicopters have taken off from the north-north-west, east-north-east, and south-south-west. Attempting to requisition air support, over."

"Shit!" Dunn jerked his helmet strap tight, "We're surrounded!"

"Don't give me that, Corporal! Keep it together!"

"Sarge!" Wade hollered, "We're breaking off with Nightmare! We'll try and buy you some time! To get those HVIs out of here!"

"Negative, Private! We need to..."

"Overridden!" Their Humvee swerved away and drove off the road, followed by Nightmare, just as the helicopters began to appear. Foley cursed.

"Dunn, floor it! All vehicles, we need to run this gauntlet ASAP!"

Chiyo was thrown back in her seat as the Corporal jammed the pedal into the floor, and wasn't really paying attention to much that was happening. Soon, the gunfire started as the Russian soldiers rappelled from their choppers and began shooting at them. If she wasn't wearing her seatbelt, she would've been tossed out of the car a hundred times, but was far too busy ducking her head under the window to see just what was causing Dunn to panic so much. Foley yelled something, before the car slammed into a wall, the force of the very belt to which she owed her life blowing her lungs empty at the impact. Gasping and wheezing for breath, the gunfire and explosions seemed to come to her through a fog as she labored, in vain, to raise her head, although she was vaguely aware of Raptor screaming his heart out, and Ramirez struggling to free her from the safety restraint.

"I've got her! Get Raptor out of here!" Dunn ordered, forcing the driver door open and running around the Humvee, opening Raptor's side door as well. Ramirez got himself and Raptor out of the seatbelts and proceeded to stumble away from the crash, leaving Dunn and Foley with Chiyo.

"Dammit, this buckle is jammed!" the Corporal swore, drawing his combat knife and sawing at the belt. Then, he felt something tap the side of his helmet—the muzzle of an AKM rifle.

"I'll help you with that," A thickly accented voice jeered.

* * *

Author's pie: Yes, that's right, author's PIE. Apple with a side of REVIEW THE DAMN STORY PEOPLE.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: This should be about as many different lasting characters as I want to introduce now, so things will start moving faster from here on out.

* * *

Washington DC: The Pentagon. Five years ago.  
"What the hell are you saying, General? I..." Admiral Drako lurched forward in his seat, the curly phone cord knocking over the bottle of scotch on his desk,"You... you're joking, right?"  
"That's exactly it, Admiral." Shepherd groaned, "We didn't find Al-Asad. We found a nuclear warhead, and the bomb techs... I don't know, they botched the disarmament. We... we're still working on the casualty reports. It's not looking good."  
"But... that's... can you give me an estimate? What units were involved?"  
"1st Marine FR, 3rd Marine FR, HMLA-367, HMM-268... shit, I can't give you an estimate, Admiral. Marines, Army, Navy SEALs, all of them are dead or dying from radiation right now. I'm doing everything I can, but..."  
"367..." Drako whispered, glancing at the picture on his desk. It was of a young woman in a tan flight suit, with her arm around Drako's neck, grinning broadly and flashing a peace sign while standing next to a parked AH-1 Cobra.  
"There were several Force Recon teams and light fliers that didn't make the safe distance... they were aiding a downed pilot. Deadly. They picked her up, but... Admiral? Is something wrong? Admi-"  
Drako set the phone back down on the receiver, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. It was... he couldn't describe the feeling. In all of his years in service, he had never experienced one like it.  
With a roar, he swept everything on his desk off, books, papers, folders, the lamp, and the phone receiver all flying out onto the floor, and sprawled out on to the now-empty space like a discarded ragdoll, feeling just as alone and even more helpless. Anyone who thought a Navy SEAL, three-star Admiral, and genuine roughhead could never cry would be rendered silent at the scene, as Drako began to sob.

* * *

Shepherd was on the last flight out. Nothing could brighten his mood to anything above the cold Atlantic storm outside as the C-17 followed its brethren Stateside, loaded down with the last of the marines, soldiers, and airmen involved in the theater.  
No one spoke. The massive loss of life had finished tallying at over 30,000 US servicemen alone... more than half of the gradual death toll Vietnam had garnered. Several of the men on board eyed the general sullenly, watching his face for any sign of sorrow at the loss... all they saw was anger.  
"I knew it..." he muttered at last. "I knew that we should've gone after Zakhaev sooner. Instead of leaving him to those British pussies... they can't do anything halfway..."

"Sir..." One Marine, a Corporal, approached carefully. "I was given a letter from the Cobra pilot I served under before she took off... she said to give it to you in case she didn't make it back. I don't mean to..."

"Why? Who was this pilot, Corporal?"

"It was First Lieutenant Pelayo, sir. She told me you'd be the only person who could reach her father."

* * *

It was the next day that Drako had finished typing up his resignation form. The entire Pentagon was now a beehive of activity, the nuclear blast shaking everyone to their very core. Normally, he would be at the very heart of the beehive, doing everything he could like everyone else, but his own loss was far too great for him to go on like this.

His office was clean and neat, which never happened on a regular basis. For his length of service, he was enormously informal, and his office generally reflected this. He had to prepare it for the next person to occupy it—they'd need it, whoever they were.

"Admiral!" Someone knocked on the door desperately—a familiar voice sounding off. "Urgent letter for you from Brigadier General Shepherd!" The hatch swung open, and the short man ducked into the room.

"Petty Officer Timothy..." Drako said absently, immediately setting off a warning light in Timothy's mind. As was mentioned, Drako was the most informal flag officer in the Navy, and referred to his secretary as 'Tim' or even 'Gary'... the sudden formality, combined with the tidied office and neat dress uniform caused Timothy to stop hurrying for fear that his officer was...

"Admiral, what's wrong? What're you holding?" He asked, wide-eyed, as he contemplated the unthinkable. "You're not... resigning, are you? You can't be!"

"If they don't let me, I'll act up until they discharge me and throw me in the brig. I can't take it any more." Straightening his sleeves, Drako walked around his desk, collecting his suitcase, heading for the door and pushing Timothy aside.

"You... you can't! Not now, we need you at your best! And you ARE the best! Here, take the letter." Drako stopped at the door as the Petty Officer said this, "General Shepherd handed it to me personally! He told me it was top priority."

Drako was motionless, his back to his soon-to-be former secretary.

"I can't take this top priority, top secret, day-in-day-out office bullshit anymore!" He finally yelled, tossing the case to the ground. Its contents spilled out, the rusty old latch of the fifty-year-old pack finally breaking. Papers, pictures, letters, folders...

"Admiral, this isn't anything related to intelligence! Shepherd gave it DIRECTLY to me to give DIRECTLY to you! Told me to show it to NO ONE else! Even if you are leaving... I have a feeling you'll still want to read it."

Finally, Drako conceded, taking the envelope and opening it unceremoniously, pulling out the letter.

"_Dad,_

_ It's me, Shelby. Never was much of a letter-writer, just like you, huh? If only writing letters was like giving speeches to motivate these sacks in my squadron. _

_ "Anyway, if you do end up reading this, that means I'm not around. I wish we could've gone to Coney Island one more time, like we always did when I was a kid, when my dad was the heroic Navy SEAL Captain and all, but hey, Heaven's close enough, right? I'm just glad you raised me better than some of these nuts I work with... hell, Keating's an Atheist. I bet you didn't know that. If you hadn't kept me going to Church all my life, this'd all be some sappy bit about the great void and crap like that._

_ "Being serious, though, I know you must feel pretty awful. We were pretty close, I understand. But the only thing I'd ever truly regret in dying would be that you would be left alone. It's hard, but you have to keep being the same old bastard I knew and loved, for the sake of all those crazies in the Pentagonium and for all of your subordinates. Or you and I're going to have a little sit-down once you get here, trust me on that one._

_ "There were times I could've been a better daughter, and there were times you could be a better father. Especially that one Thanksgiving. But in the end, we both stuck it out, and we helped each other grow up, so I don't regret one thing. _

_ "Don't be sad that I'm gone. God has a plan for all of us, and if you're still around, there's something you should be doing. Stay strong. Now literally, your little angel."_

* * *

"Gunnery Sergeant Wattson."

"S... sir." The man on the hospital bed seemed to have more holes in him than a cheese grater, and his condition had only recently stabilized. He was the luckiest Marine Shepherd had ever seen, having been on a medivac bird and barely escaping the nuclear blast that had annihilated his comrades. Before then, he had been shot numerous times when he'd broken from his position to rescue another Marine that had been trapped under debris from a collapsing building, and by the time he'd carried that man to the helicopter, he'd practically collapsed into it himself from blood loss.

"You look pretty smoked, Marine."

Wattson shook his head and leaned back. "What're you here for, General?" He growled.

"I heard of your acts from that man you saved and the crew chief of the medivac bird, and..."

"If this is some damned commendation, you keep it. Use the ribbon to make a uniform and the medal to make a rifle."

"Gunnery Sergeant... they're saying you're probably not going to fully recover." Shepherd said.

"Let 'em say that. I don't care, I'll get back into the field somehow. I'll fight until every single man killed by that blast is avenged a thousand times over."

"But who is responsible for that bomb, Wattson? Do you know?"

"Al-Asad and his cronies. They'll..."

"Not so, Wattson, this isn't something I keep open. When you make that full recovery, you come to me." Shepherd handed the Gunnery Sergeant a sheet of paper. "You and I, along with a few other choice individuals, are going to take the fight to the very men responsible and make them pay for what they've done."

Wattson reached out with trembling fingers and took the paper, unfolding it and reading the header.

"Task Force 141..." it began...

* * *

Two weeks after Shepherd began his Task Force, a different Marine was reporting to a different officer in an entirely different place. The Pentagon... hallowed ground. Every step had been taken lightly, and the young PFC had made every effort to avoid upsetting its sacred balance, which was dying down slightly in the wake of the blast.

The man behind the desk, a Petty Officer 1st, punching in characters on the computer rapidly, barely noticed him. He was clearly hard at work, as the beads of sweat down his forehead and the stack of paper coffee cups beside him evidenced.

"Um... excuse me, I don't know if this is the time..." the boy began.

"Go on in. Drake's been expecting you." Without looking up, the Petty Officer tapped the phone. "PFC Miller, coming in, sir."

"Good."

"Thank you, sir." After a second, the NCO looked up. "You still here? Go on in the office, Private. No one's going to eat you."

"Aye, Petty Of-"

"Get in the damned office already!"

The Petty Officer's sudden outburst scared the living daylights out of Miller, who was in the office literally before the desk jockey could finish... and he found himself in a completely different world.

"Welcome, Miller. Take a seat for me, will you?" The man before him offered. He clearly hadn't been doing very much work, and had a massive stack of donuts and an enormous bottle of scotch on his desk. He'd been chipping away at both, and he gave more an impression of the hardboiled Master Chief forced into an office setting.

"Aye, Admiral."

"Please, Drako's fine. Unless you plan on pissing me off." Drako pushed the plate of donuts on his desk closer to Miller's side. "Help yourself."

"Thank you... Drako." Miller nodded, but refrained from taking any of the donuts at the moment. "So, might I ask why I was called here?"

"I'll give you the short version, kid. Your great grandpa... you know him well?"

"He's all right... at least, as far as a 90-year-old WWII veteran can go... but, what does this..."

"I'm getting to it. Your great grandpa was in a very special unit, the 2nd Raider battalion... Carlson's Raiders. I read his files, and I'd say he was damned insane, even by _Marine_ standards. But that's why he did so well. He ever tell you about the time he commandeered a Japanese triple-25 AA gun and used it to fend off a whole company of hostiles?"

"He pretends to forget he told me just to tell me again."

"Old age'll do that to you... son, the Marine Raiders were disbanded seventy years ago, but... I have a feeling that its legacy lived on somewhere in you. And, if you're up to it..."

Drako reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velcro MCCUU unit patch of simple design, showing a skull in front of two crossed lightning bolts.

"We can revive that legacy. Starting, with the 5th Raider Battalion. Pelayo's Raiders."

* * *

"Pelayo's Raiders..." Sergeant Miller mumbled, inaudible over the roar of the Sea Knight's engines, his eyes fixated on the battered old dogtags. MILLER, CRAIG J, they said. All that remained of that man now, he thought, clenching them tightly in his fist.

His mission briefing stuck in his mind. The first step was insertion, which was to be done by boat. Specifically, both teams would conduct a 10-10 insertion near two Navy SURCs that were in the area. They'd hit the beach from there and sneak into Tokyo.

From there on, they had two objectives. Disable enemy anti-air around the area that was going to be their primary LZ, and take out the propaganda radio station in Tokyo Tower. Just another day at the office?

"Damn, old man," he muttered to the dogtags, "I never knew how you felt... I feel like I will soon enough, though..."

"Victor 2, this is Victor 1." The radio crackled to life, as the pilot of the first Sea Knight raised that of Miller's bird, "we've got a mystery noise coming from the aft rotor and some bad vibes. We're returning to Whiskey November, how copy, over?"

"Solid copy, Victor 1." The pilot of Miller's bird switched communication lines. "Fourthwall, this is Victor 2. Victor 1's having engine troubles, please advise, over."

"Victor 2, Fourthwall. Recommend mission abort, over."

Miller made his way to the chopper's cockpit. The flier noticed this, and nodded.

"That's a negative, Fourthwall. Scratch that, we'll handle the mission as planned, over."

"Copy that, Victor 2. Good hunting, over and out."

The pilot looked back and gave Miller a thumbs-up.

"Team 2, you're on your own once you're off the SURC. Don't die on me, over." He recommended."

* * *

"Load him into that Humvee, Private. You're with us now." The National Guard Sergeant instructed, as soon as he saw Ramirez hobble up with Raptor over his shoulders. "Get these cars moving back, soldiers. Regroup at the old mall..."

"Wait, wait, what?" Ramirez asked, setting Raptor down in the Humvee and walking toward the Guard sergeant. "Excuse me, Sergeant, but my commanding officers were just taken prisoner, along with an HVI we were tasked with protecting. I can't fall back to any rally point."

"You, excuse ME, _Private,_ but your commanders' inability to defend themselves isn't my concern. Wars aren't won in a single day..."

"I don't believe this!" Ramirez drew the attention of every National Guardsman in the convoy, but he didn't care about all of the eyes that were on him now. Dunn and Foley had been captured, were probably under interrogation right now, and Mihama... the thought brought a fresh wave of seething anger over him, and he let his 'superior' know it.

"I'm an Army Ranger, for God's sake!" He spat furiously, "Special Forces! 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment! I went through RS at Fort Benning, I've been fighting through hell for the past few hours, and you come along and tell me to abandon my mission, my comrades, and a girl, not even twenty years old, who've all fallen into enemy hands! Well, EXCUSE ME, but I'm not going to be taking orders from a National Guardsman who won't guard the nation!"

Before the Guardsman could retort, Ramirez stormed off to one of the trucks and threw off the cover on a few weapons crates. He removed two Stingers and one AT-4 launcher, slinging them over his back, and a few extra magazines for his M4.

"I'll be needing these, _sir._" He growled, starting back the direction he'd come.

* * *

"You like jokes?" The Russian asked, almost insultingly, as he toyed around with the slimlined laptop Chiyo had been carrying in her bag, probing at it to determine how to proceed. His English was broken and accented. "What fails 91 days after you buy it?"

Chiyo, while having been treated better than Foley and Dunn, the soldiers she'd been captured with, was still trapped in a small room with an armed man... which scared her too much for her to respond.

"A toy with 90-day warranty!" He finished, practically falling over himself laughing. "You need to loosen up! Here, I've got some candy I pick up from a store. You like candy?" He made good on his word, picking a couple of caramel squares from his pocket, before noticing the expression on her face. Muttering something in Russian, he set the candies in front of her before resuming his work on the laptop.

"You were used, you know this? The Americans, they forced you to carry computer with them, yes? This computer is... very, very important for us. You will be released without injury.

"What about the soldiers that were captured rescuing me? Will they be released?" She asked, prompting a strange look from the Russian.

"Is... not that simple. They are the criminals we are punishing now. We cannot release murderers and deceivers. Is not our way."

His efforts to crack the computer failed again, and it flashed a yellow screen at him. Swearing in Russian, he abruptly drew his pistol and fired it several times at the wall. Chiyo ducked and screwed her eyes shut, hoping she wasn't his next target.


	8. Chapter 8

"We'll be holding off the coast! Just give us a shout when you need a pickup!" Waving, the Navy CPO shouted into the radio and drove off, just as Miller and his team finished wading up the shore.

"Keep safe, Chief." Miller muttered, "C'mon, Marines. We're not keeping Ivan, Chang and Kim waiting, oorah?"

"Oorah." They replied.

"Corporal Douglas, you're on point. Stay frosty, stay quiet, hand signals once we're in the city."

This didn't take long, and it became quickly apparent that the JGSDF and US forces stationed in the city were having to keep quiet as well. The whole city seemed deserted, and other than some sporadic bursts of gunfire, aircraft, and vehicles shifting through the city streets, there was practically no sound. Three Hinds passed overhead, which Miller was only able to avoid by moving his team into a mini-mart.

Surprisingly, the store wasn't only empty of Axis, it had also escaped looting from refugees and hostile soldiers. It had lost power, however, and many of the food items lining the shelves had been knocked over from artillery shells, passing vehicles, and aircraft.

"Hey, Sarge." Douglas whispered, pointing toward the refrigerators. "Free beer. Can I?"

"One for the road. Don't get hammered on me, I need you sharp."

"Aye." Having secured permission from his superior, the Corporal moved up and opened the fridge door, pocketing one can in his vest before proceeding.

All the while, the radio in the store, a battery-operated handheld, kept playing the same propaganda garbage.

_"Your leadership has been proven guilty of unforgivable criminal offenses, offenses not the least of which consisting of the support of terrorism, mass murder, and senseless genocide. Lay down your weapons and realize the truth—you are all fighting for a lie. Give up this lie and face the truth..."_

After a while of bobbing and weaving through the streets, the team reached Tokyo tower. Their first objective was to knock out the propaganda radio broadcasts coming from the structure... although Drako hadn't specified a means.

Peering around the corner, Miller lost count of how many Russians he saw guarding the radio tower. And that was an understatement—a great many of the guards were North Korean as well. Groaning inside, he pulled back and shook his head.

"We don't have time to do this up pretty. Kohler, get your semtex ready."

"Aye aye, Sergeant!" With a maniacal grin, Private Kohler tiptoed forward, opening some of the pouches in his vest. "This is gonna be awesome."

"The rest of you, hold here. If we don't make it, you guys focus on the triple-A. Things might get loud very quickly. Let's move!"

Miller and Kohler shifted around the corner, quiet as mice, and hunkered down behind a destroyed car. There was a very good reason he chose Kohler to accompany him—while a genuine psychopath, he spoke near-flawless Russian, which he attributed to family ties.

And, just as Miller had expected, two Russian soldiers passed by the car at that moment, one enlisted and one officer. They were dealt with swiftly and silently, and by some crazy stroke of luck, had exactly the same uniform size as the Americans. Miller didn't spend very much time admiring his luck.

It wouldn't work for long, but would hopefully last enough for them to place the semtex charges on the supports of the Tokyo tower and get the hell out of Dodge. After fibbing their way through the gate, Kohler led Miller over to the tower and made a distraction of the two guards standing watch at the guard hut.

"_Hey, you don't look familiar._" One of the Russians remarked suspiciously, _"What're you doing here? This is our patrol route."_

Kohler had been paying close attention to the radio and picked up some scuttlebutt from other Russian guards, so he put two and two together and built his story.

_"Kruschev's orders. We needed to investigate a report for two American saboteurs." _He replied authoritatively, in his best Russian military voice, _"And if you two hang around here much longer, I'll __assume the worst and shoot you where you stand!" _For emphasis, he reached for the filched Makarov sidearm.

The Bolivian Fire drill worked far better than he'd hoped.

_"Sir! Apologies, sir! Bardzecki, move your ass already!"_

_ "I know! Hey, quit pushing!"_

In their hurry, the two soldiers both crowded the doorway before falling out entirely. With a huff, Kohler turned back to Miller.

"Charges set yet?" He whispered. Miller nodded.

It was when they'd halfway crossed the street that they were seen through. A chorus of shouts and gunfire, and instantly the two Marines were on the run.

"Oh, shit!" Miller yelped, as bullets pinged off the pavement around his boots. "Lose the act, they're on to us! Kohler, push the damn button! Buy us some time!"

"Yes, SIR!" The charges were blown.

All of the Russians who had been occupied with shooting the Marines now turned to see what that godawful creaking noise was... and, as the tower bent out of shape, they began running for their lives. The wire mesh caught a Hind on its way down, goring it on the jagged metal. If the pilots hadn't been killed by that, the whole aircraft ignited and blew before it even hit the ground.

"FUCK!" Douglas screamed, as Miller and Kohler rejoined the team, "How the hell are we going to get their AA now? The whole city had to have seen that!"

"I don't know, we'll improvise!" Miller shouted back, taking back his M16. "On me! We're moving! Herald, this is Mike Romeo Team 2! We've neutralized Tango Tango, the whole damn combat zone is on alert, we still need to knock out that AA, advise, over!"

The Hawkeye crewman promptly responded. "Team 2, Herald, what is your current position, over?"

"We're a block east of the enormous burning cloud that was the radio tower, over!"

"Um... hang on, Team 2, I don't think we've got any support in that sector. I'll check with available resources, over."

Miller grunted, and without time to change back into his MARPAT uniform, simply tore his velcro Raider patch off and reclaimed his helmet, leaving the remainder of the uniform. The team had just started running down the street, when literally out of nowhere, a van tore around the corner, screeching to a halt right in front of them. Reflexively, the Marines brought their weapons to bear on the vehicle, but a JGSDF soldier threw open the door and motioned to them.

"Get in!" He screamed, waving his arms. Things were heating up quickly—Miller decided to ask his questions later. He tagged the van, turned around, and knelt with his rifle aimed at the approaching Russians.

"In the van, Raiders! MOVE!" It was difficult to believe how meek he had been five years before—Drako's specialized training regimen, based off the bygone days of basic training being a school of hard knocks, had brought him well up to speed. Peering down the sights, Miller began taking shots to cover his squad.

Douglas was bringing up the rear of the squad, the last one to get in other than Miller. He pulled himself up and turned around to cover his sergeant, when a bullet ricocheted off the side of the van, striking him in the chest. Kohler jumped as he saw the impact pierce the Corporal's pocket, and a warm liquid splashed over his face. Miller jumped into the van, the door slammed, and it started moving again.

"Oh, GOD! Douglas is hit!" Kohler shrieked, nearly panicking, as he tried to wipe the liquid, he assumed blood, off of his goggles.

"What?"

Miller looked at Douglas, then back to Kohler, rubbing some of the liquid off and sampling it. Then, he glanced at the pocket that had been hit, where some of it was still running, hissing disagreeably, and some aluminum fragments were visible.

"Sorry 'bout your beer, Douglas." He said, deadpan, and knocked Kohler upside the helmet. "Kohler, if you freak out on me like that again, you're waxing the helicopter in flight, hear me? Keep your head on your damn shoulders."

"Y... yes, Sergeant!"

The three other Marines laughed at Kohler's mistake. Douglas simply slapped him on the shoulder.

"Good to see you're worried about me, kid." He chuckled.

"You guys pissed some people off!" The JGSDF soldier shouted, picking his rifle back up. "Did you seriously... just..."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout the scratches, but a little paint and a new tower and it should be good to go in no time!" One of the other Marines joked.

There were three additional people in the van, two up front, and one kneeling at the right side window, a Howa Type 64 rifle pointed out the smashed pane. This one stood.

"Leading Private Kagura, Central Readiness Force. These two soldiers, Private Hatsu and Private Mikawa, my subordinates, and our driver's a civilian, Miss Yukari."

"How many more soldiers are we going to have to pick up tonight?" Yukari demanded, "Aren't you people supposed to be able to take care of yourselves?"

Everyone else in the van ignored Yukari's complaints. "Sergeant Miller, US Marines, Pelayo's Raiders. My right hand man, Corporal Douglas, Designated Marksman PFC DuBears, and Privates Kohler and Palko, my support gunner."

"It's an honor..."

Suddenly, two MiG-21s flashed by on full afterburners. Kagura checked the chamber on her Type 64.

"Well, I guess talking's not a free action."

Miller grinned wryly. "Palko, get that SAW to the back window. DuBears, Kohler, keep the cartridge casings out from under..."

"ICOMING!" The soldier riding shotgun, Hatsu, shouted. "Step on it, Yukari!"

"Hang on!" Kagura warned, gripping the handle over the window. Before any of the Marines could do the same, the van lurched forward dangerously, causing almost everyone to fly into the back door. Palko, who had just posted with his M249, almost flipped out the back window, but managed to hold himself in and keep his gun from falling out as well.

An RPG blew apart the pavement just behind the van, and several Russian jeeps tracked around the corner, in hot pursuit. Palko took a breath, steadied his gun, and began firing.

One of the jeeps took several hits in its engine block, slowing down. The others, however, were gaining rapidly. Desperately, Palko yanked a grenade off his chest pocket, pulled the pin, and cooked it for a second before rolling it out the window. The grenade bounced off the pavement, exploding right under the axle of one jeep, causing it to swerve into its partner, totaling them both in one huge, indulgent fireball.

Only a second later, two Mi-24s, likely the ones the Marines had evaded earlier, swooped in from the sky ahead of the van, strafing it with rockets and 23mm cannon fire. With a prodigious hand, Yukari veered the huge vehicle off the left side of the road into a small alleyway clipping both her rearview mirrors as it just barely squeezed in.

"Who the hell are you, woman?" DuBears gasped, throwing open one of the rear doors and brushing several empty casings out.

"This was my favorite shortcut to get to work on time!" Yukari shouted back gleefully. "Oh hey, watch this!"

Several North Korean soldiers had entered the alley, hoping to cut the van off on the main road, and upon seeing that they had chosen the wrong path, had begun attempting to climb the walls or fleeing the way they'd come. Yukari turned on every blinking light on the van, the high beams, and the CD player on full blast, before flooring it down the narrow strip.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. _Tearing out the alley and back into the street, Yukari turned off the lights again, but left the disc player on. Eying her carefully, Hatsu decided she was a psychopath and dismissed the event.

"Contact! Fast movers, nine o'clock!" Kagura shouted over the screeching tires. The two MiG-21s had come around again, discharging their bombs before pulling away. One of the bombs struck the building ahead, causing it to topple over. Yukari, leaving no doubt that she WAS a psychopath, floored it again and tried to get through... mostly succeeding. The roof of the van was torn off somewhere along the way.

"Oh, dammit!" She cursed, "I just found this stupid van, too! Get a good, sturdy car, and then the Russians come along..."

"ARE YOU CRAZY?" Miller forced his way to the front of the car. "We could've just gotten crushed!"

"Oh, we're fine! I don't think we need to worry about insurance!"

The two Hinds made another pass. Thinking on his feet, Kohler grabbed at his rifle and gripped the M203 slung under the barrel. The shot turned out better than he'd hoped, as it met with the canopy of the passing helicopter, blowing it out and showering the crew with shards and shrapnel. Without a pilot, it slowly lost control and went into a skyscraper. Its partner broke off the pass.

"Good job, Kohler! Got any more semtex?" Miller asked.

"Yes, sir. What's your plan?"

"We need some drive-bys on their AA. Hey, Yukari? Can you get us there without being killed?"

"Sure thing, boys!"


	9. Chapter 9

"What the hell's going on?" One North Korean asked, looking up as if trying to find the source of the gunfire that had only just started.

"Maybe just another ambush. Ought to be over in a minute or so." His buddy replied apathetically, checking the chamber of his AK-47. "Be ready. Could be coming our way."

"What do you mean? If it's an ambush, it won't be moving at all."

"Pays to be prepared. We've got an important job here." The second man gestured at the Tunguska behind them . "It's not a question of if the Americans counterattack. It's when. And when they do, these guns are going to be seeing a lot of action..."

Suddenly, a set of high beams appeared to the two NK soldiers. Reflexively, the second one yelled and jumped into the first, knocking him out of the way of the battle-scarred van as it swerved by.

"KOHLER! SEMTEX!"

With a grunt, the Marine followed his orders, flinging the adhesive Semtex charge out the side of the convertible van. His timing was right, and his aim was true. The charge cleanly stuck the entrenched Tunguska, right between the turret and the body. With a grin, Kohler brought his head down and pushed the detonator, sending the Tunguska, and several surrounding infantrymen, to kingdom come.

"How many's that?" He screamed, over the gunfire from the pursuing vehicles.

"Three! We've got one more we need to take out before we can radio for extraction!" Miller yelled. "PALKO! How's your ammo situation?"

"RUNNING LOW, SIR!" Palko shot back. "I CAN'T KEEP 'EM SUPPRESSED FOR-"

With a loud thump, a Russian soldier flew over the hood of the van and into the back, his RPD bouncing right at Palko's feet. Not even bothering to finish his report, he bent down to retrieve the machine gun, resting it against what was left of the rear hatch and opening fire again.

"I'm almost out!" Douglas yelled, pulling back from the window and scrabbling for a grip as the van swerved again. Hot brass jangled along the floorboards like a wind chime from hell—DuBears had NOT had any chance to sweep it out, frantically throwing handfuls of it out the back hatch as Palko produced even more of it.

"Douglas! Heads up!"

A pair of Type 89 magazines, taped together, slid along the floor, bouncing off Douglas' boot. Leading Private Kagura gave him a thumbs-up, turning back to her window. Gratefully, Douglas tapped the mag into the receiver and slapped the bolt release, looking out.

"Coming up on that last gun! Kohler, ready with that Semtex?"

"Ah, f..." Kohler growled, "It's stuck, sir! I can't get this thing out of my pocket!"

"KOHLER! WE NEED THAT GUN GONE! GET THAT SEMTEX READY!"

"SIR!" Still trying to get the charge out of his pocket, Kohler's fingers twitched and trembled, keeping him from moving them with any control. Mikawa, who'd been focused on the window almost the entire time, saw the solution, drawing his knife.

"Hold still, American!" He grabbed Kohler and threw him to the floor, pulling the fabric of the Russian uniform tight and bringing the knife down. The uniform put up more resistance than he'd expected, but when he began sawing with the serrated knife, it gave way. Soon, the pocket was severed.

"It won't stick to the gun, so you'll need to throw it more carefully!" Mikawa warned, moving back to his window and opening fire again.

"HEADS UP! That second Hind's making another pass!" Yukari shouted back. "He looks pissed!"

"AND HOW?"

"I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS SHIT!" Hatsu screamed, firing his rifle out the windshield at the oncoming helicopter. The puny 5.56 bullets barely even scratched the paint on the helicopter, which responded with a zig-zagging strafing run of 23mm cannon fire. Yukari spun the wheel, turning the van off the road and into another alleyway, for only a second to allow the Hind to pass by. Then, she threw it in reverse and backed out.

The hostile jeeps had caught up rather quickly. Instead of trying to turn around, Yukari kept the van in reverse and floored it, ducking behind the dashboard as the bullets began pinging off the seats and the frame around her.

It was a split second decision for Kohler. He knew he wouldn't be able to throw the Semtex charge so it would stay on the next Tunguska, and the volume of fire on the van would make it impossible for the Marines and Japanese to escape. The antiaircraft gun was right alongside the road...

"TAKE THE DETONATOR! DON'T HESITATE!" He screamed, tossing the Semtex detonator at the Japanese Leading Private and taking off his tactical vest, which contained his ammunition and grenades.

Miller saw the move coming from a mile away. "Kohler! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT MARINE!"

It was too late. Kohler had thrown open the side door of the van and, clutching the uniform pocket to his chest like a football, leaped out into the street, oblivious to the shouts of his comrades from the van. They only lasted a second, anyway, before the vehicle left him behind. How he kept his footing, he didn't count on living to find out. He sprinted toward the Tunguska, adrenaline pumping through his veins, as he focused on one thought to keep himself from thinking how crazy he'd be remembered as. _Get closer..._

He was about ten feet from the AA gun when he was hit. The Russians on a couple of the jeeps that had been tailing the van had pulled off just to chase him down. Before he finally went down, Kohler tossed the Semtex package right into the treads of the Tunguska.

His knees gave, and right before his vision completely faded away, he was certain he heard the satisfying blast of the Semtex charge, and although he couldn't feel the ground beneath him, he felt a familiar warmth, as well.

"WHAT THE HELL?" DuBears shrieked in horror, "KOHLER!"

Miller glared at Kagura with a look of unbridled hatred. "WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?" He dropped his rifle and grabbed her by the collar. "YOU JUST BLEW UP ONE OF MY MARINES YOU FRAGGER!"

"HE WAS ALREADY DEAD!" She yelled back, yanking his arms in and swatting them aside, breaking his grip. "I SAW him go down! And what the hell was I SUPPOSED to do?"

"We should've gone back around! We should've-!"

"And made his sacrifice in vain? Is THAT what he would've wanted?" Kagura spat. "Keep your head on your damn shoulders!"

Miller's eyes widened in terror. He'd said the exact same thing to Kohler about twenty minutes ago when they'd boarded the van... and as much as he hated to admit it, the Japanese soldier was right. Kohler had been stupid, but in that sense, there was nothing else she could've done but blow the charge.

Gritting her teeth, Yukari popped the transmission and spun the van around, so they weren't backing up. The Axis had backed off for a few seconds, having gone after Kohler instead. At least one of the jeeps had been following him too closely, and had been blown sky-high.

"He left us his gear." Douglas pointed out. "He meant for us to use it, so..."

"Take what you need!" Miller snapped. "Get on the horn and start seeing to our ride out of here!"

"Sir!" Douglas acknowledged, "Herald, this is Mike Romeo Team 2. We've secured alternate ground transport, destroyed enemy AA emplacements around the landing zone! We've lost one man... What's our extraction, over?"

"MR-2, this is Gold Eagle. One of my assets is still in the city, at the corner of 46th and Manaya, in the sewer system." Douglas groaned inside at the sound of General Shepherd's authoritative voice, and the realization that an impossible addition to their already impossible mission was about to be made.

"You need to get down there and extract them. Challenge, Yeoman. Callsign, Furball. Then we can talk about extraction."

"Gold Eagle, that's a negative, we do not have adequate support to operate in that sector, over!"

"Marine, that's a Tier One asset in that sewer and you're going to extract it! Gold Eagle out!"

"Oh, crap. This is gonna suck." Douglas ground his teeth down. "Sir. Change in plan..."


End file.
